


Left Behind

by MoonRiver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Out, Complete, Drug Use, Explicit Language, First Time, Flashbacks, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 77,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lost his virginity after his first year at university. After running away from his abusive father he allows Victor Trevor in, offering him complete trust until tragedy tears them apart. The breakup is traumatizing, and they don't speak again...until Victor shows up in London nine years later, asking for Sherlock and John's help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

His hands trembled as he reached for the doorbell. One arm grasped his side, which was still burning with pain. He shook as he stood there in the pouring rain, lips blue and legs numb. He was both desperate and terrified for the door to open. Both anxious and nervous to be somewhere safe. He was terrified to know how his friend will react- to everything. The bruise, the shaking, the state of him. How weak he was. 

After an agonizing wait the door opened, and the kind face of a tall brunet appeared in the doorway. Locks of curly hair fell into the other one’s face so that he had to brush them away to get a good look at Sherlock. 

At last their eyes connected.

“Sherlock?” Victor whispered. 

Victor Trevor stared at him for a moment, his hand frozen on the doorframe. He wished he would let him in; although not a soul is on the street in Victor’s elite Norfolk neighborhood, he felt like all eyes were on him. He was wrapped in a soaked jumper, tattered jeans, and trainers with beaten soles, but he felt completely naked.  
In a moment of panic Victor opened the door, grabbed his hand, and pulled him inside.

“Sherlock,” Victor whispered. Once inside the warm foyer Sherlock shivered, having difficulty adjusting to the temperature change. He couldn’t speak, and he simply stared at his friend, hoping he would somehow understand. “Did you come from London like this?”

He nodded weakly. The simple gesture sent an electric shock of pain through his head. Victor seemed to notice and he raised a hand to his face, gently, cautiously, but Sherlock still flinched as cool fingers caressed the dark bruise beneath his eye. 

“It was just someone from the neighborhood,” he stammered, voice so hoarse he could hardly hear himself. He swallowed, trying to gain more confidence. “They were high, they didn’t know-“

“Bullshit.” Trevor’s voice was dark and cold, and Sherlock could hardly bring himself to meet the fury brewing in his eyes, though he knew it wasn’t directed at him. “Did you phone the police?”

He shook his head. The pity gazing back at him was almost as painful as the injuries. It was then that Victor noticed the arm wrapped around his waist, and he reached forward, forcing the hand away. Sherlock groaned, hesitant, but allowed him to continue. He stole a quick glance himself and was relieved to see the bruise was rather small, no bigger than a tennis ball. Yet Victor’s eyes lit up with hatred. 

“The bastard,” Victor mumbled.

“It’s nothing-“

“Bastard!” Victor exclaimed. “Fuck, Sherlock! You’ve got to contact the police this time!”

“No!” Victor stopped at his pathetic cry, at his eyes, wide with fear. “Please, just…let me stay. Please. I just need somewhere to stay.”

They were only months apart, and yet Victor seemed so much older than him then. He never depended on him more, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Victor reluctantly nodded his head.

“Come on,” Victor whispered. 

Grasping his hand, he was led to Victor’s bedroom. He lingered in the room alone as Victor disappeared first back to the kitchen. He returned with a bag of ice.

“Here,” Victor said, thrusting the ice at him. 

“I don’t need-“

His pounding head protested, as did the flash of Victor’s eyes. He sighed again as he accepted the ice and placed it against his eye, shuddering at the coldness of it. Victor then disappeared into the washroom, and a towel was thrown his way. 

“I suppose you didn’t bring anything,” Victor muttered.

“Didn’t have time,” Sherlock admitted.

Again, the pity. He swallowed nervously; it felt like a spotlight was hanging over him, highlighting just how helpless he truly was. Instead of protesting, Victor stepped inside his wardrobe. A pair of pajama bottoms were thrown at him, followed by a freshly laundered jumper. The clothes felt brand new compared to what he was wearing.

“Strip,” Victor ordered.

Sherlock just stared at him; his knees went weak. Victor rolled his eyes.

“Change,” Victor explained. “God, you’re so…”

The words trailed off his tongue as he must have realized he was going in the wrong direction. Sherlock gazed at him a moment longer before finally peeling off the soaked sweatshirt. An old t-shirt was underneath, one he had worn for years, and he could see the disapproval of his fashion choice in Victor’s eyes. His skin prickled with nerves as he was watched. The shirt brushed against the bruise ever so slightly, but he still winced violently. Victor rushed toward him, a hand at his side in an instant.

“Does that hurt?” Victor asked, pressing his palm lightly against his stomach. Sherlock shook his eyes even as he flinched at the touch. “Maybe you need to go to the A&E or something.”

“No!” Sherlock pleaded. 

His throat was sore by now, a product of the cold rain. Victor gazed at him, not arguing. He really was trying to understand, Sherlock realized. Suddenly a hand reached up to his chin, turning his bad eye toward Victor. Sherlock’s trembling seized as another hand locked in with his fingertips. His eyes widened in surprise as he realized what was happening.  
He didn’t budge as Victor’s lips closed in on his, capturing him in a familiar gesture of what he could best describe as empathy. He let his hand rest on Victor’s shoulder, which prompted his boyfriend to pull him closer. He shivered as his bare chest touched Victor’s jumper, and on instinct Sherlock’s hands shimmied up his back. They broke apart for a moment, breath hot against each others' lips before kissing again.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave last time,” Victor whispered against his lips when they parted again.

Sherlock forced him back into another kiss for a moment before responding:

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Victor protested with a groan. Hands suddenly found their way up his own chest, and Sherlock let out a soft moan. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Their eyes met, and he had never been so desperate for Victor’s acceptance. He wasn’t sure if boyfriend was the right term for what Victor was, but it was the best way he could describe their relationship. They had been together for the better part of sixth months, having met studying in the university library, of all places. Their relationship was their secret, although he had a feeling Victor’s father suspected they were doing more than just reading books in his son’s bedroom. It was three months before Victor found out what was happening at his own home, and another three weeks before he would actually open up about it. Soon Victor’s house became the place to escape to, to run away to until Victor’s family got tired of hiding him there. 

“Where’s your family?” He asked.

“Dad’s at work,” Victor said. Their lips brushed together. “Hailey’s at orchestra practice until five. Grandmother’s in a nursing home.”

Sherlock pulled away, gaping at him.

“I didn’t know that.”

“I know,” Victor said. Without missing a beat, their lips brushed together again. “Can we please not talk about my grandmother right now?”

“Is she alright?”

He was honestly concerned, but he wasn’t even sure Victor heard him. Victor took the opportunity of his mouth opening to slip his tongue in; Sherlock gasped at the sudden lack of oxygen but slowly eased into the kiss. Suddenly they found themselves stumbling back until Victor’s knees hit the bed, and Sherlock unceremoniously fell into his lap. The smallest of grins broke out across his face, which seemed to ease Victor’s worrying for the moment; but as soon as he felt better a finger brushed against his bruised eye once again a sickening pit settled in his stomach. He reached up, forcing the hand away.

“You’re so cold,” Victor whispered. 

He responded by pressing himself even more closely against his boyfriend, settling into the heat formed by the friction of their bodies. He stiffened; his jeans were becoming incredibly uncomfortable and Victor seemed to realize this.

He froze when Victor reached for his zipper.

Their eyes met, Sherlock’s full of fear while Victor silently pleaded with him not to be afraid. Sherlock breathed deeply as he remained silent, allowing Victor to continue. A hand gently pulled at his neck, pulling him further into the kiss. He allowed the dance of their tongues, the exploration of mouths, to distract him from the awkward sensation of having his clothes pulled off. He then felt himself being pulled toward the pillows. With one hand still on his neck, Victor used the other to pull the bed clothes over them. Sherlock relished in the warmth of the comforter and was secretly grateful for at least some sort of privacy. He realized he hadn’t thought to return any favors to Victor, but his boyfriend didn’t seem to mind as he tugged away at his own trousers. Lips found his neck then, sucking lightly at the skin. He moaned into Victor’s neck; tiny shivers traveled up and down his body. They were pressed together, every inch of them, and the feeling was all of maddening, frightening, and brilliant. 

It was only then that he realized: _I have no idea what I’m doing_.

He stopped and pulled back to gaze at Victor, hoping he would understand. His body was hot with embarrassment as he clung to Victor. Victor nodded, and in one swift movement he was tossed onto his stomach. His heart was racing, thumping against his chest so hard it hurt. 

“You’re taking this well,” Victor smirked.

“Yeah, I was feeling pretty confident right until about…now,” he admitted.

Victor grinned against his back before leaning down to continue to devour Sherlock’s neck with his lips. Sherlock simply lay there, unsure what he should be doing. His legs were going a bit numb again, and he cursed himself for giving into such human reactions. 

He heard the bedside drawer open and close.

“Relax,” Victor whispered. 

A cold hand ran up and down his back, still damp from the rain, and he let out a low whine. Victor’s chest lowered against his back, and suddenly the cold, damp feeling turned into a burning heat. His breath hitched as soft kisses trailed across his neck. With his head buried into the pillows, he let out a small moan. A finger brushed against his back, tracing his spine all the way down to his arse. The finger disappeared, returning moments later slick with lube. He twitched as the finger settled between the cheeks; a firm hand rest against his lower back to keep him still.

“Easy,” Victor whispered.

Though soft spoken his voice sounded so close, like the world was closing in. Like the only thing happening right there, at that moment, was the two of them. The weight of Victor’s body pressed against him slightly as he pushed the finger inside him, and Sherlock clenched around him. 

“Victor,” he trembled desperately.

He began wrapping his arms around the pillows, unsure of what else to do with them, but Victor’s free hand stopped him. 

“Alright?” Victor asked as he gently pushed the finger in and out. He nodded; sweat was pouring down his face. “How about now?”

A second finger pushed into him, and Sherlock shut his eyes even tighter. He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to ease into the feeling inside him. He felt so tense, so tight, that he couldn’t see why anyone would think this felt good.

“I know,” Victor whispered; he trembled again, feel uncomfortable knowing Victor could tell what he was thinking. “Breathe.”

It seemed like an odd command but he obeyed, letting out a long, shaky breath. He was surprised to actually be able to relax for a moment…then he felt Victor lift him slowly with his free hand. The other continued to push in and out as he was brought to his hands and knees. All at once Victor removed his fingers, and Sherlock shuddered. He thought he would feel relieved, but he realized he actually felt empty. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, his body was left begging for more. 

One hand roamed his back as the other drew close to his chest, finding one of his nipples. He gasped, breathing hard at the sensation of skin on skin. 

“God I hate you,” Sherlock moaned.

“No you don’t,” Victor whispered, breath hot against his chest. “Are you fine like this?”

Sherlock nodded feverishly. He wasn’t sure how else he should be. 

Suddenly Victor’s fingers pushed into him again, scissoring him open, he realized. He almost flinched on instinct, but then he realized:

_“Fuck.”_

It actually felt amazing this time. Victor grinned. 

“Is that good?” 

Sherlock wished he would stop asking these questions. He wasn’t sure how else it should feel. 

_“Yes,”_ he groaned. “Fuck yes.”

This seemed to be a signal for Victor to move faster. Sherlock suddenly sucked in a sharp breath. His body seemed to lock up in a blissful haze.

“Yes!” He was shocked to find his voice again past the hoarse moans. “There.”

“There?” Victor smirked, brushing the spot again. 

Sherlock nodded desperately. God he was actually panting.

He added a third finger, and Sherlock nearly burst.

“Oh god.” The groan seemed to ripple through the room. Sherlock was grateful for the echoing sound of rain pattering against the windows. “Fuck. _Oh my god._ ”

“Christ I haven’t heard you talk this much in ages,” Victor mumbled.

Sherlock let out a shaky laugh.

“You should really work on your dirty talk,” Sherlock shot. 

“That can be arranged,” Victor growled. The flick of a tongue traced across his earlobe, and he thought he might simply die, just like this. “How does that feel?”

His knuckles brushed the spot again, and Sherlock was certain every cell of energy in him was crying with desperation.

_“Please.”_

“Shit, I didn’t think I’d have you begging.”

“Fuck…bastard!”

Suddenly Victor removed his fingers altogether, and Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Victor’s own breath seemed to hasten as rested his hands rasped his arse tightly. Sherlock winced as fingers dug into the skin for a moment before disappearing again. Something wet and hard brushed against him, and he realized Victor was lining himself up. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath on instinct, clenching at the sheets as Victor pushed in. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry out as Victor began pushing into him. 

“Fuck,” Victor mumbled behind him. 

A scream escaped him still, erupting through the house as Victor finally pushed all the way inside him.

Victor paused, panting. Sherlock kept holding his breath, trying to not think about the pain. It felt sharp and tight and yet warm and right all at the same time. His own cock begged for relief below him; his eyes widened as he watched Victor’s hand creep down his abdomen toward it, until his fingers brushed against the shaft.  
It was like everything he could ever feel was rushing through him. His own frantic breaths echoed loudly. Victor was sucking at his neck again as he allowed him a moment to adjust.

“Victor-“ he warned.

He wasn’t going to last long at all. 

“Fuck. _Sherlock._ ”

He shuddered as his named rolled off his boyfriend’s tongue, so desperate. He wanted to reach for Victor’s hand, wanted to hold onto something other than the drenched sheets. Instead, Victor’s fingers began stroking his cock just as he began to thrust into him. 

_“Victor.”_

“Too much?” Victor panted. He shook his head. “Alright?”

 _“Please!”_

He didn’t care how he sounded. He didn’t care how the bed rocked in a fury that would shake the whole house. He didn’t care that the covers were slipping off of them by now, fully exposing what they were doing. 

“Sherlock,” Victor whispered again.

He nearly sounded like he was crying. Victor stopped for a split second.

“Please,” he pleaded as Victor slipped out of him.

He could feel his boyfriend’s wet, sloppy grin against his back. Victor gave a tight squeeze to his cock before pushing back into him.

“Oh god!” 

He could feel his orgasm rushing to surface, shaking him to the core. He never felt so alive, so aware of every inch of what he was feeling. Flashes of hotness erupted at various breaking points in his body. Victor was panting like mad, just above his face. 

“Fuck!” Victor’s voice shot through the house. “Sherlock!”

Pupils blown wide, Sherlock grasped the sheets in horror as Victor’s hand sped up, meeting each thrust perfectly. He began pushing back as Victor pushed into him, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so fantastically perfect that all in one moment it became too much.

“Victor!” He exclaimed. “Victor, I’m-“

Victor sped up his thrusting; the force of it took his breath away. As much as he wanted to keep his eyes open he couldn’t. It was all too much, too much to take in. He closed his eyes as Victor continued to pound him, shoving them both deeper and deeper into the mattress. 

“Oh god! Oh FUCK!” 

His cry seemed endless. Victor screamed his name as he filled him, but the rhythmic push-pull didn’t need to last as Sherlock came. At last his eyes flew open again, just in time to watch as his come spilled into Victor’s hand. His body seemed to freeze as he clenched around Victor.

“Oh god,” Victor muttered one final time before collapsing on top of them.

They lay there for a moment, panting and still joined together. Then as his head seemed to deflate and feeling returned to his legs Victor slid out of him. Even that sensation sent shivers down his spine.

“Fuck,” Sherlock grunted as he was freed.

Victor rolled beside him, grinning amongst the sweat and come drenching the sheets. 

“Oh my god,” Sherlock whispered.

It was one of the only two phrases he could think to say. Victor leaned over him and their lips brushed together, as gently as ever. Everything was still normal. When they pulled away Sherlock smiled, truly honestly smiled, for the first time in what felt like days. 

But Victor was frowning. He watched, confused, as his boyfriend’s hand trailed down to the bruise on his stomach.

“Oh my god,” Victor moaned, sounding sick and disgusted, which only made Sherlock feel ill. Just like that, all the brilliance of it seemed to disappear. “That was too much. Shit, it wasn’t the appropriate time. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I-“

Sherlock reached up, holding a hand against his chest.

“It’s fine,” he said. He was still breathing hard, finding it difficult to catch his breath. The entire day had been too much, from the incident to being here, in bed with Victor and perhaps Victor was right. But he was relieved for the escape, for being able to know that someone cared about him enough to fully accept him like that. He brought a hand to Victor’s cheek, stroking it lightly. “Promise.”

They gazed into each others' eyes, and while Victor looked hesitant he nodded. Reaching up, he allowed their lips to meet one final time before they fell asleep.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Eleven years later Sherlock woke with a start, shooting straight up in his darkened room. He looked around, confused for a bit as he remembered where he was. London, 2010. Baker Street. With a shaky sigh he lay back down, throwing himself back into the sheets, which were full of sweat. It had been ages since he last saw that memory in his dreams but lately, since moving in with John, it was every night. He had been flatmates with the doctor for almost six months now, just as long as he and Victor were together before-

“Sherlock!”

He groaned as John’s shouting echoed through the flat. Pulling on his dressing gown and slippers he threw his door open and thundered down the stairs.

“What?” He shot. 

John stared at him, surprised at being snapped at. He looked around, realizing suddenly they were in the foyer and John had a guest ready to meet him. Sherlock’s eyes found the man’s loafers first- _designer new, comes from money_. He trailed up the man’s wardrobe, thinking that the man dressed sickly similar to Mycroft, down to the waistcoat and-“  
He froze. 

The kind face that greeted him broke into a sheepish smile as he allowed Sherlock to take in what was happening. He may have been fifteen years older, but Sherlock recognized him instantly. Recognized him in his brown eyes, the hair- though cut much shorter now, the smell.  
He knew he was being watched. He knew John was grinning with curiosity. 

“Sherlock, who’s this?” John asked. 

His eyes met his former lover’s for the first time in nine years, and his entire soul nearly melted. There, in that man’s eyes were his most guarded, secrets. Every ounce of emotion he had ever possessed. Every trace of trust he ever allowed another to have. 

And tears years of silence. 

He swallowed, suddenly struggling to find his voice. He couldn’t even say his name, not after so long. Not when there was still so much raw, unresolved, hurt even to this day. Instead he simply whispered, sounding completely empty:

“He’s my ex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! I couldn't get this idea out of my head so I decided to just throw it out there and see what kind of response it gets.
> 
> More?


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thanks for all the reviews and kudos! As you can probably tell, this story will be told in a mix of flashbacks and present-day drama. This chapter gives you a little more insight into what's going on, but it will all make sense soon enough.

“Ex?” John echoed beside him. “As in…ex?”

Sherlock was only vaguely aware that his flatmate was speaking. His eyes were locked with Victor’s; he was searching for every piece of data he could. Expensive clothes: important job, government possible, lawyer likely. Eyes: red-rimmed from crying, watery from sleep deprivation. Skin: abnormally pale. Face: worn from exhaustion. Lips: dry and cracked from lack of hydration. Lived alone. Single.

_Available._

Swallowing, he glanced away, embarrassed as the thought crossed his mind.

“You look good,” Victor stated quietly.

He felt his cheeks reddened. Beside him, John’s grin faded.

“No,” Sherlock admitted, “I don’t. What do you need?”

Both John and Victor stared at him, surprised by the blunt statement. When Victor opened his mouth to speak he had to swallow a bit, as though his mouth was too dry to form words. _Tragedy. Personal. Hasn’t spoken to the police._

“I need your help,” Victor pleaded. “I heard about what you do now, and I need your help.”

Sherlock stared at him, in complete awe that Victor would even _dare_ to suggest such a thing. There wasn’t even a trace of guilt in Victor to acknowledge what he put him through, or the silence between them for the past nine years. He had worked far too hard to get past those events, to be able to move on emotionally.

He knew he couldn’t get involved again, in any kind of way.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He didn’t give Victor time to argue before closing the door on him. Victor’s arm caught the door first, but Sherlock ignored him as he turning away, storming toward his bedroom.

“Sherlock, please!” Victor cried after him.

The door to his room slammed before Victor could speak again. He rest against it, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth in shock. He looked around for an escape, anything that would get him out of here. He just couldn’t face this- not in front of John.

“Sherlock!” He closed his eyes at John’s voice, at the pounding against the door. “Sherlock, open up!”

Sherlock realized too late the door wasn’t locked, and John burst through. The two stared at each other; gone was the grin on John’s face. He was relieved to see John seemed honestly concerned.

“What was that about?” John said, waving his hand toward the door. “Sherlock?”

“I told you,” Sherlock said. He swirled around, toward the window.

“Ex _what_?” John demanded. “Lover?”

He flinched at the memory of a cool finger trailing down his spine.

“Now would be a really good time to be honest with me,” John offered. “Completely, one hundred percent honest.”

John took a seat on the bed without asking for permission. Sherlock knew there was no way out of this, not without John’s help. With a sigh, he took a seat next to him. Hesitating, he carefully chose his words as he replayed the last ten years in his mind. He had been so successful in avoiding this subject, how was this crashing down on him all at once?

“John,” he began, hardly able to speak above a whisper. He had to fight to get the words out of him; John stared at him, completely unprepared for what was coming. “I’m gay.”

His flatmate nodded, _confused_.

“Yeah, I gathered,” John admitted.

Sherlock just stared at him.

“What?”

“Well besides the fact some handsome bloke just wondered up to our door and you say he’s your ex there were, you know, signs.”

John swallowed, looking away. He tugged at his jumper; he was already beginning to sweat.

“Signs?” Sherlock repeated. “What signs?”

Shrugging, John stammered:

“You know…just…forget it, already, okay?” John groaned. “I’m glad you told me. So what’s the story with Victor? You met in university, then?”

He said the name with a grin, and Sherlock realized he was being mocked. _So it begins,_ he thought.

“We met at university. We studied together in the library. We were just friends, at first. Neither one of us were very popular. We studied at odd hours, throughout the night, so that’s how we found each other. Eventually we hung out in the dormitories, we ate, we-“

“Went on dates?” John grinned. Sherlock stared at him, horrified, and John immediately straightened up. “Sorry, completely inappropriate. Go on.”

“That was our first year. That summer we were separated- he lived in Norfolk and I in London. I used to travel to see him, to hang out, I suppose. He was the closest thing to a true friend I ever had.”

John nodded, but Sherlock could see he was only pretending like he comprehended what he was saying. Truthfully, John looked like he couldn’t make sense out of any of it. He almost looked in shock.

“When did you realize you had feelings for him?”

Taken aback, Sherlock studied him, wondering if he could trust him with the truth. He never told this story to anyone; no one ever bothered to want to know.

“I went to his place one night after…” he stopped short, closing his eyes at the memory. “He never judged me. He…he took care of me. One thing led to another, and…no one really knew about us. Then again, no one knew us. We were loners. Then summer came, and I went back home and he went back to Norfolk.”

He paused, wanting to do anything but have to tell John the next part of the story. It was another part of his life he carefully hid from him, from everybody. But John was studying him, dissecting him, waiting for answers.

“John,” he swallowed, fighting again to find his voice. “It’s just complicated, alright?”

“It’s complicated?” John echoed, staring at him incredulously. “It’s complicated, with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’m telling him to leave,” Sherlock said again. He threw the door open and stormed into the corridor, ignoring John’s calls for him to stop.

“No!” John finally exclaimed. His back suddenly hit the wall, and John was only inches from him, shaking an excusing finger at him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but there’s someone down there, asking for your help. It’s someone that you obviously really cared about at some point in your life, and it’s someone who’s clearly upset about whatever’s going on. If something that tragic happened between you two, how easy do you think it was for him to come to you for help?”

He was speechless as he stared at John in shock. John rested a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock stiffened at the contact.

“You’re going to go down there, you’re going to make him tea, and you’re going to hear him out.”

Their eyes met, and he saw John was clearly surprised at himself for the outburst. At last he nodded, deciding that at the least it would give him some time do think through how to handle this. He couldn’t tell John the truth- that much was certain. If John wanted to believe this was uncomfortable for him because of the rift between him and Victor, he was content with that.

John quietly led him back to the foyer, where Victor rested against the wall, arms wrapped around himself. A wave of dejavu hit him, and the true irony of what was happening settled in.

“John, this is Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said.

“Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The two shook hands, and Sherlock was relieved to see that Victor appeared accepting of John.

“This is John Watson,” he explained, nodding toward John. “My flatmate.”

Victor’s eyes lit up with interest at ‘flatmate’. He knew the introduction sounded like “flatmate, i.e., not boyfriend”, and even John looked to him with curiosity.

“Can John make you some tea?” He offered.

 John threw his hands in the air in frustration but led them to the kitchen anyway. Victor’s eyes went wide as he took in the state of the place, and for the first time ever Sherlock was embarrassed at the mess. He took a subconscious step toward the fridge as John began making the tea, hoping Victor wouldn’t find an excuse to look in there. John stole a glance toward him as he handed him a cuppa.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Victor accepted the tea graciously as well, but his hands were still trembling too much to even raise the mug off the table. Instead he stared into it, helplessly.

“I know what you do, Sherlock,” Victor said. “I know you work with the police, and that’s why I need your help.”

“If you need the police’s help why can’t you go to them?”

Victor was taken aback at the sharp reply and Sherlock looked away, wishing he hadn’t spoken. Sherlock’s stomach turned into knots.

“Because it’s about Hailey.” A sickening feeling crawled up his throat as their eyes finally met, and suddenly everything made sense. He stayed quiet, letting Victor continue. “She’s missing. Has been for two days now.”

“Who’s Hailey?” John said as he took a seat across from Victor.

Victor’s eyes remained locked into Sherlock’s as he replied:

“My sister. Sherlock…I think it has to do with Dad.”

He froze. He hadn’t thought of James Trevor in years; he didn’t allow himself to. At the very mention of the name he was suddenly twenty again and sitting on the Trevors’ sofa. He was staring at Victor, but he might as well have been staring at James, trying to figure out how to lie to the only adult who had ever taken him seriously.

“Sherlock…” John began, carefully taking in this new information. “What does he mean?”

“My dad was a DCI in the Norfolk Constabulary. Everything you’ve seen Sherlock do- the deductions, the experiments, he learned it all from my dad. Sherlock will never admit, but my dad was the closest thing to a father he ever had.”

John turned to him in shock.

“You never told me that,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t reply as he stared down at his arms, crossed at his chest.

“I imagine he hasn’t told you much of anything about me,” Victor said. “He has every right to still hate me. After my father died I refused to talk to him.”

“What happened?” John asked.

Turning away, he placed his hands on the counter to steady himself. As he closed his eyes he took himself back to that day, at the train station, when Victor found out. He remembered the funeral, Victor’s breakdown, and nearly being beaten to a pulp by the only person he had ever dared to admit he loved.

“He killed himself,” Victor whispered. “It turned out he was corrupt. Back when my father was a sergeant he took bribes from drug dealers in agreement to keep them out of jail. It’s a long story, but it ruined my family’s reputation for years. He managed to keep it hidden all those years as he moved up through the ranks...until someone turned him in.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling like he might be ill. He could hear the resentment in Victor’s voice, still as painful as it was to hear nine years ago.

“Who turned him in?”

From the slight tremble in John’s voice, Sherlock knew his flatmate had an idea of where the conversation was going. His hands gripped the counter, bracing himself for the impact as Victor replied:

“Sherlock did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock moaned as his eyes shot open. One of his eyes ached dully against an unfamiliar pillow while the other darted around the room. His sights landed immediately on the form of a man tinkering with items on the bookshelf. Carefully he leaned over, wincing as he turned onto his side, and turned on the light.

Looking around, he panicked when he realized he was alone in the bed. The last thing he remembered was lying against Victor until finally falling sleep. One glance at the clock told him that was hours ago; it was now nearly midnight.

His heart leapt to his throat when he saw the form belonged to Mr. James Trevor: Victor’s father. He met the man a few times during previous stays, but Mr. Trevor was always working so much it was never more than a quick “hello”.

 “Hi,” Mr. Trevor greeted.

“Hi.”

His voice was tiny, sounding like that of a teenager’s. Sherlock sat up but immediately grabbed at the sheets as he realized he was still naked. A spark of electric pain erupted through him at the sudden movement, and it was then he realized just how sore he was, from his head to…

“Victor’s downstairs getting a midnight snack,” Mr. Trevor explained.

Sherlock went pale as he nodded. He pinned himself between the headboard and the duvet; he desperately tried to arrange his hair so that it hid his black eye.

“He said you came over this afternoon from London in the rain.” Mr. Trevor pulled up a chair from Victor’s desk. “Must have been some trip.”

“It’s not bad,” Sherlock mumbled.

Sherlock froze as Victor’s dad examined him from his disheveled hair, to the glow of his skin, to the bruises colouring him from that morning.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mr. Trevor said. “You stay with your dad over the summer, right?”

He nodded again, feeling a bit sick to his stomach. He knew what Mr. Trevor was getting at. Sherlock carefully avoided the man’s eyes by keeping his own pinned into the sheets, which only reminded him of the finger trailing down his spine…

His shudder was obviously noticed by Mr. Trevor.

“Did Victor tell you what I do for a living?”

Instead of replying Sherlock took a moment to look the man over as he tried to figure it out for himself. Victor’s dad wore dress slacks, a simple collared shirt rolled to his elbows, and a rather-expensive looking gold watch. But his shoes were becoming worn at the soles, his eyes dragged with exhaustion, and his short brown hair was already fading into grey.

“I work for the Norfolk Constabulary.”

His heart stopped. His eyes flashed to Mr. Trevor in horror, and Victor’s father actually offered him the smallest of sympathetic smiles.

“Sherlock, I know you and my son are more than just study buddies and dorm mates,” Victor said. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock, who could only swallow nervously. _He knows!_ His heart pounded; he never even considered what Victor’s father would say. Suddenly he felt ridiculous, embarrassed, and ashamed. “And I’m okay with it.”

His eyes lit up with hope, and he was offered that same small smile again.

“He says you need a place to stay,” Mr. Trevor continued. “Want to give me a good reason why I should let you?”

“I’ll go. It’s fine.” Sherlock mumbled.

He made to get up but stopped suddenly when he remembered his only clothes littered the bedroom floor. His eyes widened at the state of the room, with their clothes thrown about and the sheets a damp mess. There was no hiding what they did.

“Hey,” Mr. Trevor said, holding up a hand. “If you want to stay over a few nights, that’s fine. You guys are… _friends_ and it’s a long summer. But I have two kids to take care of on my own, so if you need to stay, stay, I need to know what’s going on.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“How did you get the black eye?” Mr. Trevor inquired.

“Mugged,” Sherlock whispered.

His voiced was strained as he looked away, desperately avoiding Mr. Trevor’s concerned eyes.

“Mugged?” Sherlock knew he was feigning surprise. “Well, like I said I work for the police, and they got you pretty good. Did you talk to anyone back in London about it?”

He drew in a sharp breath and shook his head fiercely.

“Did they get away with any money?” Mr. Trevor asked. “Did you get a good look at them? How old were they?”

Sherlock felt terrible as he remained silent, but even though he knew Mr. Trevor knew the truth he didn’t want to admit it.

“Is it just the black eye?” He drew in a sharp breath as he brought the duvet down just enough to for Mr. Trevor to examine the bruise on his stomach. He allowed him to reach out, pressing against it gently. “Does this hurt? Any trouble breathing?” He shook his head, grateful that for once he could tell the truth. “Did Victor give you ice for your eye?”

He completely forgot about the ice, which was now but a damp puddle in the carpet.

“Yeah,” he lied anyway. “He was great, I…he’s great.”

His mouth fell shut; he couldn’t stand to hear himself stammer any longer. Mr. Trevor let out a soft chuckle, and Sherlock was grateful for the relief.

“You two are more than just dorm mates,” Mr. Trevor reiterated with a sigh, as though he were just now fully realizing what he was saying. “Sherlock, I know my son. He’s not…you know, rushing things?”

His face burned as his cheeks went red. He didn’t know which was worse, the fact that Victor’s father was actually asking him about _this_ or the fact that he was asking too late.

“It’s fine,” was all he could manage.

Mr. Trevor grinned, and he was nearly sick right then and there. Then the man stood, and Sherlock had to bite back a sigh of relief. Victor’s father studied him a moment longer, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to feel like in the fifteen minutes they talked he dissected everything there was to know about him.

 “I don’t have anything against what you two are doing. You’re adults, and I’m happy Victor’s found someone he likes. And you seem like a good kid. Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“No.”

“Do drugs?”

“No.”

He swallowed nervously; he had a sickening feeling what he was about to be asked next. He never felt so on edge before. He never felt so desperate to be wanted, accepted.

“Stay as long as you like.” Sherlock perked up a bit, and Mr. Trevor smiled at him. “On two conditions. Like I said, I don’t have anything against you two being together, but I do have a ten year old in the house. I hope you won’t be offended when I ask you to stay in the guest room.”

He winked, and Sherlock felt ill again as he replied:

“Yes sir.”

He’s the police, he thought. He must have been able to figure out _everything_ that happened.

“One last thing: talk to Victor. He’s worried about you.”

Sherlock nodded, wondering what that meant. Just how much did Victor tell his father about him? He didn’t have long to wonder as Mr. Trevor bid him goodnight and quietly slipped out of the room. Sherlock looked up as a shadow in the doorway caught his eye.

Victor was leaning against the door frame, fully dressed in pyjamas. Sherlock swallowed, embarrassed that in all of this he could look at Victor and still go completely stiff. His boyfriend gazed at him a moment, arms crossed in contemplation before he waltzed over to the bed. Victor sat down beside him carefully, allowing his hand to inch toward Sherlock. Trembling slightly, he grabbed it, clenching his wrist.

“I’m glad you told him the truth,” Victor whispered. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes trailed to him, and when he saw how sincerely terrified Victor looked he nearly broke.

“He really was drunk,” Sherlock whispered. “That’s how it usually begins-“

“Usually?”

Sherlock only stared at him, pleading with him not to have to explain.

“He stormed into the house, complaining about my brother. I still don’t know what he was talking about. His eyes were so wild and angry and bloodshot, and when I couldn’t look at him, when I tried to tell him I didn’t know what was going on-“

He stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. Victor stared at him, wide-eyed. Sherlock didn’t continue, hoping Victor would draw the conclusions himself.

“The bruise on your stomach?” Victor sounded like he might be sick.

“He just got carried away.”

“Sherlock!” Victor pleaded. Both of their eyes were wet and desperate as they connected. “You came to my house, soaking wet from the rain with your eye so black it’s nearly swollen and a bruise the size of a tennis ball on your ribcage. You were shaken- you’re _still_ shaken. You’re hardly talking and Jesus, you look like you haven’t eaten properly since we left school. Someone’s not treating you right, Sherlock, and I’m _not_ okay with it.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know how to tell the story without reliving it, and he lived it enough already for his own liking. Victor seemed to sense this because he simply tugged him closer, wrapping him in an embrace. As embarrassed as he was to be clinging to Victor like a child, he buried his head in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Victor pulled away for a moment, caressing a hand on the untouched cheek.

“I do. Someone’s scared you. Properly scared you. And you’re not going back there, not this summer- not ever, if I have anything to do with it. It’s okay that you’re in shock. Hell, I would be. You’ll stay here for the summer, won’t you? Please?”

He couldn’t believe that Victor Trevor was actually _begging_ him to stay. All at once it felt like a wave of anxiety washed away from him. As he nodded his mind seemed to unclog a bit. He was able to breathe normally.

“You should talk to my dad, really,” Victor offered. “He can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Sherlock, he’s a DCI, if anyone can make sure-“

_“DCI?!”_

The relief he just began to feel disappeared. His heart pounded as he realized what this meant. Victor just stared at him, puzzled.

“Yeah, I told you he works for the police.”

“He’s a DCI,” Sherlock breathed. He clenched his stomach, thinking he might _really_ be sick this time.

“What?” Victor demanded.

“I pretty much just told the DCI of the Norfolk Constabulary that I had sex with his son.”

Victor roared with laughter. Reaching behind Sherlock, Victor grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head with it. Sherlock let out a laugh, surprised at his ability to do so. He couldn’t believe how completely not phased Victor was by everything.

“He knows we’re adults, he doesn’t care,” Victor insisted.

“He banished me to the guest room!”

His boyfriend rolled his eyes. Victor leaned in to kiss him, allowing him the warmth and comfort he had been seeking for weeks. They broke apart with their foreheads resting together. Sherlock settled into another embrace, closed his eyes, and for the first time that summer he truly felt safe.

* * *

“Sherlock?” John’s voice brought him back to reality.

He looked up at Victor, eyes wide in shock. He still couldn’t fathom the idea that he was looking into the eyes of that very same person that set in the bedroom with him all those years ago and completely accepted him for who he was. When he realized both men were staring at him, waiting for him to do something, he snapped out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly, shaking himself out of his reverie. “I…John…it’s a long story.”

“Christ, you’re speechless!” John said, holding a hand to his mouth in shock.

“We never properly talked about it,” Victor whispered. He swallowed, trying to regain his strength. “Mainly because I bashed his face in and split his lip.”

John actually grinned, and Sherlock wanted to slap him.

“It’s not funny, John,” Sherlock shot.

His flatmate glanced to him, and when Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in on him he seemed to appreciate how serious this was.

“Sorry,” John muttered. “Look, this is between the two of you. Maybe I-“

Sherlock grabbed his hand as he started to stand. John stared at him in shock, and Sherlock immediately dropped his hand, realizing he was overstepping _that_ boundary. Victor glanced between them, clearly trying to decipher their relationship.

“Victor’s right,” Sherlock admitted, staring at Victor. God it was painful to look at him. His throat went raw, he was certain his cheeks burned red. “I learned everything I knew from his father. The Trevors were like family. The summer I lived with them was one of the best parts of my life. That’s why when I found out the truth about Mr. Trevor I was heartbroken. It made me sick to have to turn him in.”

Victor glared at him, his eyes like ice.

“And yet you did.”

The words stabbed at him. He was surprised to find John’s hand rested on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. Sherlock glanced up at him, stunned, especially after John so recently shunned him. John looked away sheepishly when he was caught.

“You mentioned your sister?” John said, inching away from him.

Victor looked down. Sherlock’s eyes roamed over him, once again taking in everything. Victor’s hands folded together as he his head fell to his chin. He looked so exhausted, so desperate, and Sherlock thought back to what John said. It must have taken every bit of strength in Victor to come back to him for help.

“Tell me about her, please,” Sherlock pleaded softly.

Victor swallowed. A strangle sob was caught in his throat. His voice broke completely as he began:

“You never knew this, but I was her legal guardian after dad…after,” he stopped, taking a deep breath. Sherlock watched him, horrified at the thought of Victor being forced to raise his ten year old sister. “It was hard…god it was hard, but we were left money. Good money. I think some of that money was actually from the bribes. One of the drug users who got caught during the investigation was just let out a couple of months ago. I think he may have gone after Hailey for revenge.”

“With all due respect, Victor, shouldn’t you be going to the real police?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced at him, and he was grateful to see that John was finally spooked into taking this seriously. His eyes then shifted to Victor, examining him even further as he spoke.

“Like I said, my family’s reputation has been ruined.”

“She’s just a kid!” John protested.

Victor tugged at his shirt sleeves and avoided their eyes. _There’s more,_ Sherlock thought.

“Hailey’s gone out with a few real low-lifes lately. I try to stop her, but she hates me. Our relationship is awful. I think she even does it on purpose, sometimes, just to piss me off. One of the guys she started seeing a couple of months ago sounded like the worst…Hailey routinely came home drunk after being with him. She…she even came home high as a kite one night.”

He glanced up to Sherlock, begging for his understanding. Sherlock had to close his eyes. It was all his fault Hailey turned out this way. It was his fault Victor’s relationship with his sister was dead. It was his fault she was out there, possibly hurt or worse-

“I don’t want to get the police involved because it will just make things worse. I never saw the guy she dated. I don’t know the first thing about him, but what if it’s the same guy? What if he’s coming after us? What if they all are? Please Sherlock…I know how good you are. _Please_.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath before his eyes snapped open.

“Okay.”

Victor’s eyes lit up in shock.

“Seriously?” Victor asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “No police, just me and John.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t right!” John exclaimed. “She could be in serious danger! The guy could try to blackmail us. He’ll make demands. We don’t know how to handle this.”

“We do know how to handle this because we’re not idiots!” Sherlock shot.

He whipped out his mobile and began sending a text.

“Really?” John snapped. Sherlock knew he was glaring at him, but he ignored him as he continued to focus on the text. “What happens when she gets in even more danger because we failed? What happens when the police start asking questions about _us_?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock held out his mobile for John to read:

_Kidnapping case. Old Friend. Help? –SH_

John breathed out a sigh of relief as he then read:

_Stay there. On my way. -MH_


	4. Chapter Four

The room fell silent, and Sherlock looked to John for help. Victor sat across from them, staring at his hands as he breathed heavily. Standing up, John grabbed the empty cups.

“More tea?” John announced. His eyes narrowed as he turned to Sherlock and mouthed: “Talk to him!”

Sherlock glared at him, hating him for leaving him alone. He looked at Victor and felt quite helpless himself. He couldn’t help but to stare. His eyes roamed around every inch of Victor. He breathed in his smell, took in the changes in his face, the hair, his hands-

“Sherlock-“ Victor inhaled sharply; he trembled ever so slightly as he tried to form words. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He rasped.

Victor’s eyes shot up to him quickly before darting away, and Sherlock got the feeling he was afraid to look him in the eye.

“For not kicking me out,” Victor replied. He let out a dry laugh and swiped at his watery eyes. “For not slamming the door in my face. I treated you like shit. I left you, I…I hurt you.”

He paused, allowing the sounds of their shallow breathing to fill the room. Dishes clattered right behind the kitchen door, and Sherlock swallowed nervously as he realized John was listening in.

“I should have talked to you,” Sherlock admitted. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“No,” Victor shot. Their eyes met for the first time, and Sherlock felt sick. As he was forced to face the hurt, the pain, the emptiness he caused, he realized this wasn’t an apology. Not at all. “Sherlock, you should know that I didn’t come here to win you back. I know you’re good at what you do. You’re the best. I just want to get Hailey back, that’s all, and I’ll go to the ends of the Earth to do that. But I can’t do _this_ again.”

Just like that Victor’s eyes disappeared back to his hands, and Sherlock had to look away himself. He was blinking profusely, and he was shocked to realize he was on the verge of tears.

Until that morning, he had always only looked back at his relationship with Victor as a dream, a life he could _never_ have again. He worked hard to make sure he was never that vulnerable again, to make sure he didn’t fall into the same traps. Eventually he pushed back his emotions so well he convinced himself he could survive without relationships at all.

That’s how he ended up here, displaced from society. A _freak_ in everyone else’s eyes. And most days, it was perfectly fine. He didn’t care, as long as he had his _work_ , something to do and care about. The _work_ could never hurt him.

But as he sat with Victor he was suddenly twenty-one again. He didn’t have anyone except the man sitting across from him. How could he think at the time that was all that mattered?

He didn’t want to admit to Victor how hard it would be to work with him again and not feel _anything_. He didn’t want John to see how vulnerable he was.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

He jumped in surprise as John appeared behind him. Sherlock accepted the refilled cup of tea and let out a sigh of relief as the tension eased a bit. He had to remember to tell John that he could never leave his sight as long as Victor was around.

The door to the flat opened, and his eyes met John’s.

“That will be Mycroft,” John said.

Victor’s eyes dashed between the two of them in panic.

“You promised-“

“I didn’t promise anything,” Sherlock snapped. “I agreed to no police, and Mycroft is not the police.”

“Wait, Mycroft?” Victor said suddenly. “Your brother?”

“Yes, his brother.” Sherlock froze as Mycroft stepped into the room. He was dressed, as always, like he just stepped out of the office although it was just nine in the morning. He offered a grim smile as he sat his umbrella in the corner. His eyes roamed around the room; Sherlock noticed John was desperately looking away, as though afraid of being called on. “Well I’m glad we’re all getting acquainted. Sherlock, care to introduce me?”

The way Victor was glaring at Mycroft told him he was fighting the urge to say something he shouldn’t. Despite never meeting him, Victor was never a fan of Mycroft.

“Mycroft, this is Victor Trevor,” Sherlock announced. “His sister’s missing, and he wants our help.”

Mycroft studied Victor for a moment.

“Since he’s not with the police I assume the kidnapper has been making demands?” Mycroft replied.

Victor stiffened but didn’t answer.

“There must be some reason why he chooses the likes of _Sherlock Holmes_ over the entirety of _Scotland Yard_.” Mycroft smirked.

Sherlock glared at him, warning him to not cross the line.

“Mycroft-“ he started.

“No!” Victor shot. He stood to his feet so that he and Mycroft were face to face for the first time ever. Mycroft lifted his chin a bit, as though to scoff at the face he stood a few inches taller. “I came to Sherlock because I know how this works, and I know going to the police will only intimidate the people behind this.

Mycroft actually rolled his eyes.

“Then you know nothing of how this works,” Mycroft said. “Even I will admit that my brother has enough _luck_ to outsmart criminals and stay ahead of the police. But if you look at his track record you’ll find a severe lack of kidnapping cases. They’re far too emotional for my brother to understand. Helping the police is easier for him when the victim is already dead.”

“Enough!” Sherlock was shocked to hear John jump to his defense. His flatmate stood as well, leaving him alone at the table like a child. “Look, Mycroft, I’m just as out of the loop on this as you are, but if there’s one thing I’ve been able to figure out it’s that it would take a lot for Victor to want Sherlock’s help, and it certainly takes a lot for Sherlock to call you. The man’s worried about his sister so for once can you stop with the bigotry and hear us out?”

Mycroft actually seemed impressed at the outburst and simply drew up a chair.

“Hear you out?” Mycroft said. Victor’s face suddenly went pale as was examined. “How about we see what I already know. You and my brother have some kind of past relationship. You aren’t a part of the Yard, and my brother has never had any other job so that rules out colleagues. You’re far too well dressed to be a part of the Homeless Network. That leaves university, which Sherlock was too lazy to bother to finish. Judging by the way Sherlock keeps gazing at you, the unmistakable pounding of his heart, and how uncomfortable Dr. Watson looks right now, my best guess is this was- dare I say it- a _sexual_ relationship.”

His heart skipped a beat on cue, and Victor looked so embarrassed he might have fainted. Mycroft only smirked when he saw how uncomfortable he made everyone else look.

“Believe it or not, Victor Trevor, I know exactly who you are. More importantly, I know who your father is.” The pompous attitude was suddenly gone from his voice, and Sherlock looked up to find a shadow of sympathy on his brother’s face. “I can only come to the conclusion that Sherlock was the one who figured it out and turned him in, thus leading to the end of your relationship and trust.”

He paused, letting everyone take in his deductions. Sherlock’s face turned bright red despite his efforts to hide in plain sight.

“Mycroft didn’t know about all of this?” John asked.

“Mycroft was only twenty-eight at the time and was too busy serving as a governmental guinea pig overseas to know what was going on with his own family,” he shot.

Arms wrapped around himself, he glared at his brother. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher exactly what was going on.

“No,” Victor breathed. “He wouldn’t know what it’s like to be so worried about his family that it makes him sick. So worried that he would do anything to keep them safe. The moment I realized my sister was gone my world fell apart. It feels like I failed and if something happens to her, if someone dares to lay one finger on her I swear I’ll-“

“Victor!” Sherlock warned.

He could see the wheels turning in Mycroft’s eyes. His own chest heaved up and down heavily; his hands clenched into fist in efforts to hide the tremors threatening to shake him.

Victor ignored him as he rounded on Mycroft once more.

“I could never let anyone hurt Hailey like you let your father hurt Sherlock.”

The room fell silent. Mycroft’s eyes went wide, and for the first time in years his solid, emotionless, façade dropped. His head snapped to Sherlock, who could only stare, feeling trapped.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began quietly.

His voice was cold, confused. He’d never seen his brother fall apart so easily. Victor’s hand flew to his face, hovering over his mouth as he realized what was going on.

“Oh my god,” Victor stammered. “You never told him.”

“ _Christ_ ,” John breathed.

“What did he mean, Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded.

He wanted to flee the room, but between the three of them he knew he would never make it out. Victor looked guilty, John looked on with empathy, and Mycroft actually looked _horrified_. Sherlock let out a shaky breath as he tried to pull it together, but he just couldn’t.

He was almost grateful when a mobile ringtone erupted in the room, but his heart stopped as he watched Victor’s eyes widen with terror. The ring was coming from his phone. Victor’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the mobile. The number came up unlisted on the caller I.D., and Victor put the phone on speaker as he answered:

“Hello?”

There was a pause; their eyes shuffled around to one another, looking for answers. Mycroft’s train of thought seemed to leave their conversation completely as he stared intently at the phone. His brother quietly pulled out his own mobile and pressed a button on it.

“This call will be recorded, just as you are recording us.” The voice was rough, taunting, just as Sherlock remembered it. It was the first user sentenced following Mr. Trevor’s death. He leaned in closer to listen. Mycroft raised a finger to his lips, warning them to be absolutely silent. “We can track you. We know you’re in London. Now that we’ve gotten those facts straight I need to know, are we talking to Victor Trevor?”

Victor’s eyes rose to meet his own, and Sherlock offered a single nod.

“Yes,” Victor said. He exhaled slowly; his face went completely white.

“Then you should have really been more firm, Mr. Trevor, when you asked to meet your sister’s dates. She was just too gullible.”

Victor’s hands clenched into fists. He leaned closer to the mobile, and Sherlock grabbed his arm just as Victor opened his mouth to shout. Mycroft glared at them both and simply pointed at the number on the screen.

“Who am I talking to?” Victor asked, fighting to keep calm.

A woman’s high-pitched scream erupted from the other end. The scream was so piercing Victor’s eyes fell shut; tears appeared through the closed lids.

The phone line went dead.

“Oh god,” John whispered.

Everyone seemed to relax a bit, but Sherlock felt more tense than ever. The scream made the case _real_. The last he saw of Hailey Trevor she was barely ten years old and running around with a student violin, playing screeching versions of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. Being forced to face the fact that she was out there, tied up, possibly hurt, and scared made him sick.

Mycroft hit something on his own phone and his eyes fell to a close.

“What did you do?” John asked.

“Recorded him,” Sherlock snapped. “Weren’t you listening?”

He threw the chair to the side as he jumped to his feet. All eyes shot toward him but he ignored them all as he faced the window.

Were they out there now, looking in?

“Victor do you have somewhere to stay?” John asked.

Sherlock was grateful that John, as always, knew what to stay. Instead of answering another chair tumbled to the ground and Sherlock swirled around just in time to see Victor disappear. He ignored John and Mycroft’s curious eyes as he fled after him.

He found Victor leaning against the wall in the front corridor, his hands grasping uselessly at the wallpaper for support. He breathed heavily as he fought back choked sobs.

“Victor,” Sherlock whispered, taking a careful step toward him.

He wasn’t sure what he should do. He wasn’t sure what his place was here. They hadn’t talked in so long, and even before then Victor turned cold, emotionless, and refused any of his support. But he couldn’t stand here and watch him break down like this, not when he could still remember every embrace, every touch of the hand.

“I’m sorry,” Victor shuddered. He brought a shaking hand to his face to wipe away the tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I just can’t.”

“It’s okay.”

His hand reached out to him but stopped, afraid of overstepping any boundaries. Victor finally turned to him, gazing at him through his wet, drained, eyes.

“You can stay here,” he offered, “that’s what John was going to say.”

“Are you sure you agree?”

Sherlock nodded, even though truthfully he wasn’t sure. The tension was already too much to bear. The constant struggle of wanting everything to be like it used to be and wanting this all to stop was already far too much. Victor didn’t deserve that- neither of them did.

Victor let out another sob and hid his face in his hands.

“God I’m a mess,” he mumbled. “Sorry, it’s just hearing her…it just made this all so real. They’re hurting her, Sherlock. They’re scaring her. She’s still just a kid to me. I’ve been an awful brother to her, but I can’t stand by while-“

A series of choked sobs shook him, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to raise an arm to his shoulder. He swallowed nervously, secretly hoping Victor wouldn’t expect anything else. When Victor’s eyes lifted to meet his he froze. Both of their hearts were racing, he could feel Victor tremble as he held him upright.

“I didn’t know Mycroft never knew,” Victor whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“I’m sorry about some of the things I said,” Victor admitted. “I’m sorry I-“

“Don’t,” Sherlock interrupted. “Don’t say something you don’t mean just because you’re emotional.”

Victor studied him a moment until he finally offered a nod of appreciation.

“We’ll get her back,” he promised. “I swear, no matter what it takes.”

Victor nodded again and breathed in deeply.

“Are you two alright?”

They both jumped at the sound of John’s voice. His eyes met Sherlock, and he was torn between being grateful for the interruption and embarrassed to be caught being so vulnerable.

“Mycroft wants to talk to us,” John said. “Sherlock, I know a lot’s happened and it might seem like a bit much to deal with, but I think you should listen to him.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock agreed quietly.

He grasped Victor’s shoulder one last time before drifting apart. The three shuffled back into the kitchen.

“Mycroft-“ Sherlock began, but he was immediately silenced as Mycroft raised a hand.

He opened his mouth again to protest but stopped when he realized what was wrong.

Victor’s mobile was ringing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll learn more about how Mycroft didn't know about the Trevors and the people Sherlock inadvertently helped put in prison later. Sorry for the delay in updating...I'll be able to update more often from now on!


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice comments! I really wasn't sure how well a Sherlock/Victor story would do, and I'm greatly appreciative that you all are giving it a chance! For Johnlock fans, great patience will see great rewards. Promise!

The only sounds that filled the room were Victor’s labored breathing and the ringtone from the mobile. With trembling hands Victor reached forward-

“Wait,” John said suddenly. They all turned to him. “That’s a Skype call.”

He pointed at the mobile and sure enough, the Skype logo was up. Sherlock looked to Mycroft for guidance, and his brother simply nodded silently. Victor answered the call.

The picture was fuzzy at first, signaling the kidnapper was somewhere without a decent connection. Then the image stilled long enough for them to see what was going on.

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment as he laid eyes on Hailey Trevor for the first time in nine years. Even he could see that her teenage years treated her well: she was quite pretty, with dark brown hair that flowed far passed her shoulders and a thin frame most teenage girls would kill for. Victor paled at sigh of his sister; his fingertips grasped the table for support. Hailey glanced to someone off camera for a moment _\- her captor_ , he thought. Her eyes were wide and watery when she turned back to the camera. She was trembling all over, much like Victor was next to him. He was relieved to see that she appeared physically fine and free of bruises or wounds, at least on her face.

As she continued it was obvious she was reading from a cue card.

“It’s good to see you again Victor,” Hailey began. She had to swallow to fight her hoarse voice. “I’m sorry about the previous interruption but now we can really begin. You owe me a debt. Your family _owes_ me. Our first order of business is to repay me for the last nine years of my life. I lost everything, and you will give it back to me.”

Victor bit back a sob, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach out and remind him to stay calm. But he knew if Victor was being watched then he was too.

“No police,” Hailey trembled. “I’ll text the amount we need. You will have twelve hours to get it together. Then we will proceed.”

Sherlock watched closely as shadows moved on the wall behind Hailey. She was obviously the basement of a house that hadn’t been occupied for years. The light swinging above her held a new bulb, which told him the kidnapper had to make a few changes to the home in order to be suitable for a “guest”. The construction of the wall behind her was much more akin to that of a small country home than a warehouse. She was backed into the corner so it was possible the basement was full or junk. One glance at his brother told him Mycroft noticed all of this as well.

Victor opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock reached for him to stop just as Mycroft mouthed for him to stay silent. Hailey bit her lip, refraining from saying something as well, and the call ended. Letting out a shaky breath, Victor collapsed into a chair. They all remained silent, giving him a moment to take it all in. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to him or what to do.

“If it’s any consolation she looked healthy,” John said quietly. “Terrified, yes, but unhurt as far as the camera let us see. She was pale, but that would be the shock…she didn’t appear drugged or-“

“John,” Mycroft warned.

John fell silent.

“As far as the camera let us see,” Victor whispered. “The bastard-“

“How much do you have to give them?” Mycroft asked.

When Victor looked up he looked like he might be sick.

“As much as they need,” Victor said.

“Don’t say that unless you truly mean it,” Mycroft said. “How much can you get together in twelve hours?”

Victor ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced around to each of them, desperate for a way out.

“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Holmes,” Victor said, “I do fairly well for myself. My father left us a lot of money. He can have all of it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“What he means is that you have to be realistic,” Sherlock said. “You can’t give up your entire live savings because one lunatic-“

“Just because one lunatic is holding my sister hostage?” Victor shot. If Sherlock had any chance redemption it all went away at that moment. “Yes, I can actually, and I can get the money easily.”

Mycroft studied Victor a moment longer before sweeping his own mobile off the table and getting to his feet.

“Then we wait,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure I’m overstaying my welcome, so I trust someone will contact me the moment we receive that text.”

“Just as we can trust you have already tapped into Victor’s mobile and will know before even we do,” Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft offered them a nod and disappeared from the kitchen. Sherlock hesitated a moment- he knew he couldn’t leave things like this, he would never hear the end of it later.

“Mycroft!” He called, tearing off and reaching his brother right before he could leave. He drew in a deep breath as Mycroft studied him, knowing what he was about to say. “Can we help them? I know he says he has it covered, and Victor’s father had money, but he was DCI not-“

“A minor government official?” Mycroft said. The smallest of smiles appeared from his brother’s lips, and Sherlock nodded. “Do you mind my asking…why are you so desperate to help him?”

Sherlock glanced away for a moment.

“Forget it,” he muttered.

“Sherlock-“ he was forced to look up, and he felt like a kid underneath the wondering eyes of his brother. “I wish you told me.”

Biting his lip, he looked away again. He was _not_ prepared for this conversation. Mycroft acknowledged this, grimacing.

“Get some rest,” Mycroft sighed. “And Sherlock? He needs you. He won’t admit it, but he does.”

Sherlock gaped at him. Rarely did he get to see the human side of Mycroft. Never would he think Mycroft was capable of anything close to relationship advice. He could only nod, in shock. Mycroft left without another word.

* * *

_It was the end of the second week of his stay with the Trevors, and Sherlock was finally comfortable enough to roam around the house by himself. He was sitting at the kitchen table that Saturday morning, his eyes buried in an organic chemistry text book, when he got the nagging feeling someone was watching him. His eyes peered up to find Hailey staring at him. She stood right next to him, still dressed in her pyjamas._

_“Hi,” she announced._

_He looked around, wondering what he was supposed to do._

_“Hi,” he muttered._

_The ten year old scrunched her nose as she studied him._

_“Are you going to be here all summer?” She asked, crossing her arms._

_He swallowed nervously; he hadn’t given Victor that answer, he certainly didn’t want to give a reply to his sister._

_“I don’t know,” he mumbled._

_Sherlock tried to shift away from her and return to his book, but she simply sat down next to him._

_“Don’t you have your own family?”_

_His mouth went dry._

_“My family’s…” terrifying, was the word that came to mind, “abroad.”_

_She kept studying him until he finally up on concentrating on the book. He threw a glance toward her, offering her a small smile. Luckily he only managed to have a few run-ins with the younger Trevor, who Victor described as nothing short of a nightmare._

_“You didn’t want to go with them?” She asked._

_“Would you leave him alone?” Sherlock was grateful when Victor waltzed into the room, heading immediately to the pantry. “Go get dressed, Shannon’s mum will be here in twenty to pick you up.”_

_Sherlock watched, fascinated, as she ran out of the room. He was only half-aware of Victor lifting up the book in his hands and scoffing at the title._

_“Seriously?” Victor snorted. “Studying in the summer? Have you eaten yet?”_

_On cue his stomach growled, and before he could answer a bowl landed in front of him._

_“Dad says she’s been asking about you,” Victor said as he poured cereal for the both of them. He grinned as she sat across from him. “I think she likes you.”_

_Sherlock was choking before he could even begin eating._

_“That’s disgusting!” He exclaimed. “She’s ten, and we’re sleeping together.”_

_He pointed between the two of them, and Victor burst out laughing._

_“I was joking!” Victor shot._

_His face burned hot with embarrassment, and on instinct he turned back to his book. Once again it was snatched from him._

_“Sherlock, stop,” Victor sighed. Their eyes met, and Sherlock bit his lip. He shifted, uncomfortable, as his boyfriend looked him over. “So she’s going to a friend’s house for the weekend, and dad’s wrapped up in a case for at least the next forty-eight hours.”_

_Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what Victor was implying. They were alone. He could feel his cheeks burn red as he stiffened._

_“I think we should get out a bit later,” Victor announced, turning to his cereal. “You need shopping.”_

_He frowned. That was very much not the comment he was expecting._

_“What?”_

_Victor snickered as he down the rest of his breakfast._

_“Sherlock you’ve been wearing the same clothes since you arrived,” he said. “I’m not going to make you spend the whole summer wearing them.”_

_By ‘them’ Sherlock had a sickening feeling Victor meant "the clothes your dad beat you in", and his stomach turned to knots. Victor offered him a smile._

_“If Hailey’s bothering you I can tell her to stop,” he said._

_Instead of replying Sherlock turned to his cereal, forcing himself to eat. Victor’s prediction that he looked as though he hadn’t eaten since their last term ended wasn’t too far off. By now he was so deprived the thought of food actually made his stomach crawl. He was so used to not eating nothing seemed to settle with him correctly. Nevertheless, he knew Victor was watching him so he ate._

_“She’s fine,” he said._

_The truth was he was envious of her. Victor’s family seemed so normal compared to his. As kids Mycroft never let him wonder around, pestering him with useless questions. He looked into Hailey’s eyes and saw an innocence he didn’t know was possible. To know she would never have to be afraid of being hurt like he was felt a bit surreal. It took a while to move from feeling jealouse to incredibly lucky and relieved the Trevors actually took him in._

_“Seriously though,” Victor continued. “I’ll show you around today.”_

_Sherlock snorted._

_“Around Norfolk? I can hardly wait.”_

_Victor grinned._

_“He does have a sense of humor.”_

_Rolling his eyes, Sherlock fell silent. He actually managed to eat half the breakfast before his stomach turned against him. He sat back, feeling helpless._

_“Are you okay?” Victor asked. Always the tone of concern. Sherlock nodded, lying. “Come on, I need a shower.”_

_Sherlock eyed him as Victor stood up and took him by the hand. He felt a bit ridiculous as he had to ask:_

_“And why am I coming too?”_

_Victor grinned again. His eyes lit up with a sparkle that made him tense up._

_“You’ve really got to loosen up,” Victor said._

_Outside, a car door slammed._

_“That will be Shannon’s mum,” Victor explained. He paled a bit and let go of his hand. Although he was alright with feeling uneasy about their relationship, he couldn’t help but to feel a bit hurt when he realized Victor was nervous about other people seeing them as well._

_Hailey tore past them at lightning speed, barely managing a “bye!” before she ran outside to meet her friend._

_“Finally,” Victor moaned. They watched as Hailey piled into the car and waited until the car sped away before turning to each other. Victor offering a chilling smile and extended his hand once again. “Come on.”_

_His palms were sweating as he took Victor’s hand and allowed him to lead him to his room. Sherlock was left standing, nearly shaking with anticipation, as Victor went into the bathroom and began running the shower. When he reappeared Victor was already shirtless, and Sherlock shuddered when he realized what Victor meant for them to do._

_“Look, Victor-“_

_He wasn’t ready for this. He couldn’t explain why, he stammered just trying to, but this was just too much of a leap forward for someone who was still terrified to be seen holding hands with their lover._

_Ignoring him, Victor leaned in, kissing him gently. They pulled apart for a moment, and Victor grinned against his mouth._

_“You’re very odd,” Victor smirked._

_Sherlock just gazed at him, shivering a bit. His body went rigid as he tried to concentrate on breathing. He went completely stiff as Victor leaned in and kissed him once again. Their hands latched together; already steam from the shower began to calm him._

_“Come on,” Victor whispered._

_Victor’s hand tightened around his, offering him an encouraging squeeze as he led them away from the bedroom._

* * *

The flat was dark, lit only by intrusive moonlight as Sherlock hovered by the entrance to the living room. Victor lay on the sofa, turned toward the cushions. His body was still but his breaths were painfully labored; Sherlock knew he was wide awake.

“Sherlock?” John’s soft, tired, voice drew him back to reality. He jumped, embarrassed to be caught staring. John’s eyes drifted to where Victor lay. “He’s getting some rest, then?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “He’s living a nightmare.”

He turned away, allowing John to trail behind him as he walked into the kitchen. He began making tea, though he had already downed countless amounts. For the first time in a long time he was craving something stronger, anything that could numb his mind and take him away from here.

“You’re a good man for helping him,” John announced.

His flatmate hovered by the fridge. Sherlock looked away, wanting for once to not have to be in the spotlight. He continued making the tea, choosing to ignore him.

“Did you two really have sex?”

Sherlock nearly choked. Spinning around he glared at John, mouth agape. John turned a shade of crimson and wrapped his arms around himself.

“If by having sex you mean him sticking his dick up my-“

“Okay!” John exclaimed. Sherlock had never seen him looked embarrassed, and he had never felt so humiliated. John shut his eyes tightly, as though he might be sick. “I’ll never get that image out of my mind.”

He smirked. _Good._

John’s face fell; the guilt was settling in. Sherlock knew he was being studied but didn’t say anything as he leaned back against the counter.

“Did you love him?”

His eyes lifted up to his flatmate, meeting sincere curiosity. John’s voice was quiet, almost as though it pained him to have to ask. A lump developed in his throat, and it took effort to be able to form actual words.

“I thought I did,” Sherlock admitted. His voice was too dry, and the pain of it seemed to make John squirm. “For a long time I thought I still did. Then eventually I realized it was useless to pine after a man who would kill me if I dared to step foot onto his doorstep.”

“But he didn’t kill you,” John pointed out. “And he came to your doorstep.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock muttered. He reached for tea kettle when it was ready. “Imagine that.”

“Sherlock-“

“Don’t feel like you need to be involved with this,” he snapped. He knew his haste was unfair, but he didn’t stop. “This could get dangerous, quick.”

“It already has gotten dangerous,” John shot. “And since when do we care about danger?”

John smirked, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to mimic him.

“I wish you told me about this,” John admitted. “All of it.”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest as he sipped the tea. After hearing the comment a second time that night he fully began to realize how removed he was from his old life. It felt surreal to think back on it, and coming back to this reality made him feel emptier than he had felt in years. How could he ever explain that to Mycroft? To John?

“Do you still have feelings for him?” John asked.

He had a feeling this was the question his flatmate was itching to ask the whole night.

“I trusted him, completely,” Sherlock admitted. “He knew things about me people still don’t know. After what happened with his father…there were nights I just stayed awake, in horror, wishing I never turned him in. Sometimes I still wonder…” He swallowed, realizing he was going too far. John was studying him on a whole new level now, and he knew he would never hear the end of this. “I became a completely different person after that. Or maybe I was only different with him, I don’t know. But he saved me, in more ways than he’ll probably ever realize. Turns out I was far more destructive to myself than anyone else could ever be.”

He sat the tea behind him, though he hardly drank any at all. John’s mouth fell open and closed again; he looked stunned into confusion. Without offering any explanation of the senseless rambling he stood up straight and shuffled out of the room.

“Get some rest,” Sherlock suggested. “You’ll need it.”

Silently, he trudged toward his room. He felt like the world was closing in on him, like everything was rushing back all at once and there was nowhere to go to hide. He collapsed at the foot of the bed, lacking the energy to lie down and attempt to sleep. Instead his head fell to his hands. His eyes were already wet, and he felt nauseated to find himself on the verge of tears as the night closed in on him.


	6. Chapter Six

When Sherlock woke he was surprised to find the flat empty save for John, who sat at the kitchen table browsing through a newspaper. Panic rose within him quickly; a lump formed in his throat as his eyes settled in on the empty sofa.

“He’s outside,” John said. He was stopped just as he made toward the stairs. “Sherlock…he just got the text. He was really upset about it.”

Sherlock nodded, retreating silently to the front door. He swallowed before he opened it and stepped out into the sunlight for the first time in days. It didn’t take him long to find Victor. He breathed in deeply as he watched Victor lean back against the window of the cafe next door. His eyes were glued to his mobile.

“Hey,” Sherlock mumbled, stepping in beside him. He stole a glance to the mobile, and his eyes went wide when he saw the amount of money written in the text. Christ, it was more money than he’d seen in his life. “Victor-“

“Twelve hours,” Victor breathed. His face was a sickly pale, and his chest seemed to tighten. “He hasn’t sent the address. Sherlock, I…why this is happening?”

He knew it was a rhetorical question, but he still felt the need to whisper:

"I don't know."

Beside him Victor looked around, like he was realizing where he was for the first time. Shivering, Victor’s eyes roamed around Baker Street.

“You’re doing well for yourself,” Victor said. “I’ve read all through John’s blog. Very impressive.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Seriously,” Victor said; a faint smile appeared on his face. “The Study in Pink was incredible. You and John are really good together.”

He nearly choked as he realized what Victor meant…what he had been thinking all this time.

“We’re not…” he trailed off, too embarrassed to explain as his eyes darted toward the flat.

Victor’s cheeks turned red.

“No, I didn’t…”

He wasn’t able to finish either. They stood in uncomfortable silence. Part of him wanted to admit he hadn’t been a relationship since theirs, mainly because he was itching to know if it was the same for Victor. But part of him was embarrassed, and he had never been more embarrassed to be so alone.

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said suddenly. “You’re a good brother.”

He was surprised when Victor actually laughed.

“Mycroft’s just as I always pictured him,” Victor replied. “Pompous arse.”

He was even more surprised to find _himself_ laughing.

“Why do you think he’s waiting so long?” Victor said suddenly. “He’s giving me a full twelve hours, as of six this morning.”

Sherlock’s face fell once again, and his mind turned back into investigative mode.

“He must be planning something,” Sherlock suggested. “He doesn’t need the money for now, he’s waiting around. Maybe he can’t leave where he is yet. Maybe _he’s_ hiding.”

Victor’s mobile buzzed and an address appeared on the screen.

“There it is,” Victor whispered.

“I’ll call Mycroft.”

Though he counted exactly fourteen minutes and seven seconds until his brother arrived it felt like the morning crawled by. Victor was stiff silent, and John didn’t look much better. Sherlock stood above them, becoming distinctly aware he was being relied upon to be the calm and cool one.

“I can get the money together by this afternoon.”

The mobile buzzed again, and all four of them leaned in, eyes wide, and read:

_The doctor brings the money._

His eyes met John’s immediately. John swallowed, stunned.

“I don’t get it,” Victor whispered, “how-“

“The Skype, the phone trace, they could be watching the flat for all we know,” Sherlock said. “Doesn’t matter, he’s not going.”

“Sherlock,” John cut in, “if he’s asking for a doctor then someone is probably hurt.”

Victor drew in a sharp breath, and John glared at him.

“You’re not going alone,” Sherlock announced.

“He’s asking for me!” John protested. “I’m a soldier, Sherlock, I can handle handing money to a kidnapper.”

“Yes, but you can’t very well drive yourself there can you?” Sherlock shot. John gaped at him, trying and failing to come up with an argument. Sherlock smirked.

“I can get him a car,” Mycroft sighed. It was John’s turn to smirk. “If you insist on not using backup then I insist in not putting anyone in any unnecessary danger.”

“Great, so we can sacrifice one of your minions but not me?” Sherlock said. “I practically am the police, Mycroft, except better. Besides, he doesn’t even realize his anger isn’t with Victor. It’s with me.”

As all eyes fell on him, and he wish he hadn’t spoken. Mycroft and John sat clueless in the dark while any trace of sympathy in Victor’s eyes disappeared. It was as though Victor had been trying to fool himself into forgiving him, and all Sherlock was doing was setting them back a step.

“Victor, how soon can you get the money together?” John asked, never taking his eyes away.

“Let me call the bank.”

Victor disappeared, leaving the three of them in silence.

“Do you not trust me with him?” John finally asked. Sherlock stared at him, in shock. “Is that it?”

Slamming his fist down on the table, Sherlock stood, choosing to storm out instead of justifying that with a response. He didn’t stop until he reached his bedroom and sank down in his mattress, feeling just as useless as he did the day before.

* * *

_Ten years ago._

_The new term got off to a quiet start. Sherlock managed to get his own room, which he retreated to immediately after each class. Though it felt no bigger than a cupboard he welcomed the change from the Trevors’ home. He was grateful to be able to stay, but by the end of the summer being integrated into their family felt a bit nauseating. He wasn’t used to being around people who actually wanted to be around him. Once he returned to school he felt grateful to have his own privacy again, and before he realized it he was actually ignoring Victor._

_Therefore he wasn’t surprised to see Victor look so hurt when he found him standing outside his door late one night._

_“Hi,” Victor said quietly._

_Sherlock blinked, frozen as guilt swept over him. He tried to mentally count the days since he last saw his boyfriend, and the number he came up with made him panic. Even he knew that was very much not good._

_“Hi,” he replied softly, leaning against the door for support. “Sorry…been busy.”_

_Victor studied him; he didn’t look convinced._

_“Yeah, well, I thought I should make sure you didn’t die and no one told me,” Victor smirked. “Though you do actually look a bit like death right now.”_

_Sherlock felt ill and found himself gripping the doorframe for support. He knew Victor was right: he looked awful. It was part of why he hid in his room over the weekend, lying about workloads. His face was a shade too pale, his hair was a mess, and dark circles took space beneath his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, he was never hungry, and he couldn’t bring himself to even get up and open the window for air- let alone step out into the world._

_“Come on, Sherlock, let me in,” Victor pleaded._

_He took a step back, simply out of guilt, and allowed Victor into his room for the first time since moving in three weeks ago. The room didn’t look much different: his belongings mainly consisted of what few clothes he purchased over the summer and an array of textbooks and chemistry sets. He noticed Victor didn’t look too impressed as his eyes roamed around the room._

_“How are classes?” He asked, simply for the sake of breaking the silence._

_Victor nodded, looking only half-interested as his eyes still wondered._

_“Good.”_

_At last he turned back to Sherlock, and he stiffened as their eyes met. It felt like ages since they last saw each other, since they were last together, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he felt more angry or confused with himself. Why did he always have to do this- run and hide just when he got close to someone?_

_He froze when Victor’s eyebrows furrowed and he took a step closer._

_“Sherlock-“_

_Victor’s hands reached up, and his heart began pounding. Frantically, his hands found the bruising on his neck. Horror was frozen on Sherlock’s face as he realized he didn’t think to hide the marks this time._

_“Oh my god,” Victor whispered as he rushed up to him. Sherlock flinched as he touched his neck, fingering the dull bruises. “What happened?”_

_“Fight,” Sherlock lied._

_As their eyes met he tried to plead with him desperately to let it go, but Victor looked scared sick._

_“Don’t bloody lie to me!” Victor exclaimed. “Sherlock, it looks like someone properly tried to-“_

_“Just drop it, alright?” Sherlock snapped, swatting his arms away. “It’s nothing.”_

_“That’s why you’ve been hiding!” Victor said. “Sherlock, I don’t get it, why wouldn’t you tell me?”_

_He rested his hands on the rim of the sink, burying himself in the corner of his room. When he looked up the mirror he found himself sickened by what he saw; he was hardly a shell of a human. Pathetic. In the light, the angry red and blue marks stuck out worse than he remembered, and just looking at them made his throat tighten._

_He shivered as Victor’s hand caressed his neck._

_“What happened?” Victor whispered._

_He looked away, heart pounding. Victor gazed at him through the mirror, begging him to speak._

_“I went home over the weekend,” he admitted. “My dad…he wasn’t supposed to be there. He was...it turns out he just got sacked. He wasn’t too happy about it, and he wasn’t too happy to see me.”_

_Victor’s eyes went wide; his hand slowly fell to his side._

_“Sherlock…”_

_Sherlock’s eyes fell closed as he turned away and wiped a hand across his face._

_“Sherlock, those don’t good look good-“_

_“He choked me, Victor!” Sherlock rasped. He had to swallow to find the strength to continue; his throat was still too raw. It only made him feel even more helpless. “Of course it doesn’t look good.”_

_“Christ, Sherlock!” Victor exclaimed. He was gaping at him with a horrifying look that made Sherlock feel like he had shrunk to the ground. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why the fuck would you go back there?”_

_“Most of my belongings were still there!” Sherlock shot. “I had nothing, Victor. So I thought I would just grab some stuff and get out of there before he came back.”_

_They stared at each other for a long moment, until Victor couldn’t seem to be angry at him any longer._

_“I wish you had told me,” Victor sighed. “I could have gone with you.”_

_“That would have gone well,” Sherlock snorted. “’Hi Dad, sorry I ran away last summer. By the way here’s the bloke I’ve been sleeping with.”_

_Victor glared at him, offended, and he fell silent. His own eyes were burning with exhaustion. He rubbed at them in frustration, willing himself to not appear so desperate. Victor took a step toward him, reaching out gently. He allowed Victor to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer. Their faces lingered only inches apart; Sherlock could feel his hot breath as they attempted to calm down. A strong hand reached up to his face, the other to his own trembling wrist._

_“Don’t go back there alone,” Victor pleaded._

_A sad smile crossed Sherlock’s face._

_“You don’t have to worry about that,” he murmured. “I’ve been disowned.”_

_Victor’s eyes closed briefly as his face contorted into what could only be described as pure hatred. When he opened them again they were alight with anger._

_“Oh god,” Victor gasped. “Sherlock…Sherlock I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be. He said if I wanted to leave and stay with another family that's fine. I just can't be apart of his too. And that's fine because...I choose you over him. Any day.”_

_Their foreheads fell together. They were both trembling as their lips brushed together for the first time in weeks. Victor’s hand shook madly as it rested on his forearm, holding onto him there for comfort._

_“Oh god,” Victor whispered again as they broke apart._

_Sherlock was shaking all over by now. He was weak- even he knew that. He hadn’t taken care of himself. It was two days after returning from home, and he hadn’t emerged from his room since. He knew his marks were at risk but he didn’t have the energy to care. He didn’t have the energy to breathe._

_“When did you last sleep?” Victor asked him._

_He closed his eyes, trying to think. He was able to spend Friday night at home by himself before facing his father, but he was too shaken by the very idea of being back in that place that he couldn’t find a moment of sleep. Saturday night was when the attack happened, leaving him so breathless, winded, and downright frightened that he escaped in a cab back to university as soon as he could. He ignored the driver’s concerned interrogation and simply watched London pass by him, eyes wide and chest heaving as the city passed. When he finally made it back to his room at school he collapsed on the bed. But he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t close his eyes without remembering. So he stayed awake._

_“Thursday, I think,” he admitted._

_Victor just blinked._

_“Sherlock, that was almost four days ago!”_

_He could only gaze at him, desperately searching for help. Victor reached up again, his fingers gently dancing along the marks on his neck. He stiffened, determined not to break although the skin was still tender._

_“Does it hurt?” Victor whispered._

_“No,” he lied._

_Their eyes met, and he knew Victor didn’t believe him. Their fingers locked together, and Sherlock let him walk him toward the bed._

_“Come here,” Victor said, pulling him down to the mattress._

_They lay side by side, simply staring at each other. He was grateful when Victor could keep his eyes on his own, and not on the bruising. But leaning forward, Victor planted a kiss on his jaw, trailing eventually back toward his neck._

_“I’m not leaving until you sleep,” Victor announced. “Relax.”_

_Sherlock was embarrassed to find a tear trail from his eye. He immediately closed his eyes tightly. He was shaken with exhaustion. He was so tired it hurt._

_“Victor-“ he pleaded._

_“Quiet,” Victor whispered._

_Their lips brushed together again, his own damp from tears._

_“I’m a mess,” Sherlock whispered._

_“I’ve got you.”_

_He buried his face in the crook of Victor’s neck and breathed deeply. He listened as both their hearts pounded and tried to concentrate on the feeling of a hand running through his hair._

_He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, shaking._

_And finally, he was able to sleep._

* * *

He was alone an hour before someone pounded on his door.

“Sherlock!” His eyes flew open. Victor.

The door opened without his permission and Sherlock shot up, startled. Victor’s eyes were wide and bloodshot. He looked half the man he remembered him as, and Sherlock realized the anticipation of going to his sister’s captor only made his anxiety much worse.

But Victor stopped and blinked, looking as though he realized for the first time where he was: in his ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. Sherlock glanced around and found he was embarrassed by the state of his room. Clothes were everywhere, posters hung off the walls, drawers were half opened. Before Victor came he wrapped up a gruesome murder case that had him awake for nights on in, storming about the flat until John finally stuck a broom underneath his doorknob and locked him in.

“Let me go with you!” Victor pleaded. “Please, Sherlock, I need to do this.”

He shook his head and got to his feet.

“No,” he breathed. He inhaled sharply, trying to remain himself that he had to be the strong one. “You’re far too upset, there’s too much danger-“

“Then you’ll be in danger too!” Victor rasped. “I don’t want that, please…”

“Victor, the last time you saw me you punched my face in,” Sherlock shot. Both of their chests heaved heavily as they glared at each other. “Let’s not forget why.”

“You’re sacrificing yourself for her,” Victor trembled.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he didn’t have a chance before Victor swept forward, catching his lips in a kiss. He didn’t have time to react as Victor threw an arm around him, forcing him closer. Sherlock gasped for breath, his heart pounding in shock.

“Victor,” he whispered as they momentarily broke apart.

Victor gasped and forced his mouth open again, tackling his tongue and breathing him in. Sherlock finally settled in, their faces pressing together harshly as his hands found Victor’s shoulders. He felt fingers crawl down the small of his back, tracing down toward his arse.

“Stop,” Sherlock whispered.

And yet Victor’s tongue traced across his teeth, tasting every piece of him he could reach. His mind was in a mad conflict between _more, more_ and _NO!_

At that moment Victor’s lips left his momentarily, only to fall again on his neck. Sherlock shuddered at the memory-

“Victor, no,” he begged.

He attempted to break apart, but their lips smashed together once more.

“Sherlock we-“

They jumped apart, hearts racing madly from John’s sudden interruption. Sherlock was certain his own heart had jumped out of his chest. He gasped for breath, his own pupils blown wide as they met John’s eyes.

John only stared at them, stunned. Sherlock dragged a hand across his mouth. Blood pounded in his ears, his head felt on fire.

And John, he realized, looked betrayed.

“We should really be going,” John finished. “Victor just got back from the bank.”

His eyes trailed back to his ex, questioning him silently.

“I was going to tell you,” Victor muttered.

Sherlock nodded, at loss for words to say. John glanced down, obviously embarrassed.

“Right, well, there will be a car here for us to take soon,” John said. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

He disappeared, leaving them standing alone. When he turned to Victor again he found terrified eyes gazing at him. Victor ran a hand through his short hair, as though desperately grasping for something to hold onto.

“I’m sorry,” Victor said. “Jesus, Sherlock I…I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You think?” Sherlock snapped.

He tried to concentrate on breathing and not the taste of Victor on his lips, not the sensation of fingers tracing his back. Not the smell of whiskey and sweat streaming from the man beside him. Not the tears brimming in his eyes.

Victor just looked so _broken_.

“I’m sorry,” Victor echoed. “I’m a sodding mess. A wreck. I haven’t slept in days.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock lied. “You’re emotionally compromised. You’re living one of the worst weeks of your life. You’d probably snog Mrs. Hudson if she offered you a moment of comfort.”

Victor blinked.

“Who’s Mrs. Hudson?”

He shook his head and looked away. He finally caught his breath, although his chest was far too tight. Sherlock almost sure which was worse: having to face the consequences of the kiss with Victor or John.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock sighed.

Victor bit his now-swollen lip as he gazed at him, as though he were trying to decide what he really wanted.

All Sherlock wanted was to get out of there.

“Stay here with Mycroft, alright?” Sherlock said. “He’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

Victor nodded. He was starting to look ill again.

“Take care of yourself,” Victor pleaded.

He realized that Victor was properly worried, and he knew he had a good reason to be. It was odd to remember that Victor didn’t live in his world, full of violence and adrenaline. He was far more traumatized by a simple kiss than going after a potentially armed and dangerous kidnapper.

“Give me your mobile,” Sherlock instructed. Victor hesitated before reaching into his pocket and handing him the phone. He quickly found the address book and began typing. He handed the mobile back to him. “Here, now you have my number.”

Victor offered him a grim, grateful, smile. He stared at the number as though he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it.

“I’ll be fine,” he promised. “And John’s…John’s great. If there’s anyone you can trust with this, it’s him. He was an army doctor, in Afghanistan. He’s used it: the danger, the uncertainty. The decisions.”

“You trust him, then?” Victor asked.

“More than I trust myself.” He reached out to Victor, hesitating for a moment before placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Take care.”

Without another word he disappeared, leaving Victor standing alone in his bedroom.

John was waiting outside beside a rental car. Sherlock drew in a deep breath of fresh air, grateful to out of the flat.

“You okay?” John asked.

They exchanged glances, and a knot formed in his stomach when he could still see the traces of hurt in John’s eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John offered when he didn’t reply.

_Yes._

He climbed into the car after John. He knew John would understand: just in their short time as flatmates he had seen John in and out of relationships more times than he could count. But how could he explain to _him_ how torn he was? His body was still riddled with anxiety from the kiss. He could still _feel_ Victor on him. It excited him and frightened him all at the same time. He couldn’t understand it, he’d long since forgotten how to deal with this kind of emotion. Right now he knew the most important thing was to get to that address and get Hailey back to safety. He couldn’t afford to be this distracted.

So he had no choice but to lie:

“No.”

And he started the car.


	7. Chapter Seven

The address was in a remote area almost forty-five minutes out of London. Fifteen minutes into the drive Sherlock quickly realized that simply avoiding the issue would not be possible. John kept glancing over at him, hopeful, but every time their eyes met his cheeks blossomed red with embarrassment.

At last, Sherlock sighed.

“He was tired.”

“What?”

“That’s why he kissed me,” Sherlock mumbled. “He was tired. Not thinking. Emotional.”

John actually laughed, and he wanted to slap him.

“He actually told you that?” John snorted. “I can see why you two fell for each other.”

His flatmate’s eyes danced with amusement as they wondered back to the window. Sherlock gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding himself that he had to stay calm. He was only just now coming down from the high of the kiss, and he was trying to force himself to concentrate.

“Just admit that you don’t know what to do,” John said. “And I’ll be happy to help.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“What?”

John grinned.

“You were just snogged by your fairly gorgeous ex-boyfriend, who nearly had his hands down your trousers. You can’t honestly tell me you’re not freaked out.”

His heart tightened in his chest. He hated more than anything that John was learning to read him just as well as he could read John.

So instead he just smirked.

“’Fairly gorgeous?’” John paled as he realized he actually complimented another man.

 _Bloody gorgeous is more like it,_ Sherlock thought. Age had only done favors to Victor. He shifted in the seat; sitting was becoming a bit uncomfortable.

“I don’t have time for this,” Sherlock sighed. “Soon we’ll get Hailey back, and Victor will remember why he hates me. I can’t take anything he does or says now as the truth. Focus on the task at hand- and then we can all move on with our lives.”

“Are you sure you want to?” Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat at John’s question. “Maybe this is a sign…maybe you two can work through what happened to you.”

“What happened to us, John, is that we fell in love, his family gave me everything, and I repaid them by turning Victor’s dad into the police. Then the man actually committed suicide. There’s no coming back from _what happened_ _to us_.”

John looked, as though all this time he were trying to forget he was ever told that part of the story. After an awkward moment of silence, John finally spoke up:

“But clearly he misses you. He’s grown up- he’s a different person, you both are.”

“It’s just sentiment,” Sherlock muttered. “Adrenaline. It doesn’t mean anything. And besides, why do you care?”

John looked shocked, _hurt_ \- again- and he wished he could take that back.

“Sorry,” John mumbled. “I’m holding a case full of more money than I ever knew existed, and I’m about to walk up to some kidnapper’s house to give it to him in exchange for someone’s sister. I guess I just wanted a distraction.”

“Glad I could provide one.”

They fell silent again, and he felt far angrier than he should be. He didn’t like this: John trying to meddle with his and Victor’s relationship and fix things. He thought he wanted his advice, but it made too much sense. He realized he didn’t want things to be like they used to be. There was far too much hurt there, too much pain that still felt so raw and alive every time he closed his eyes and thought about it.

“What happened between you two before all that?” John asked. He didn’t respond. “Come on, I’m no longer asking as a distraction. Obviously he left you in a world of hurt, and I…I just want to know you better. I know nothing about you before that day we met at St. Barts'. So tell me: Sherlock Holmes’ first and only love. I want to know the story.”

Sherlock gripped the steering wheel again. _Uncomfortable_ would put how he felt extremely lightly.

And he didn’t know why, but he actually opened up this time.

“My father disowned me during my second year of university,” he admitted. He heard John draw in a sharp breath. The doctor’s eyes went wide, but he did not interrupt. “This was after years of his beatings and neglect, and honestly I didn’t care. But it left me alone, young, and vulnerable to the world. The Trevors took me in completely after that. I knew then that I was in love with Victor, but I was too terrified to say it. I was so confused by it all that I stayed quiet most of the time, letting him do all the talking and the-“

John cleared his throat.

“Do you think we could keep this conversation PG-rated, please?”

Sherlock’s cheeks went red. His voice was slightly raw as he continued:

_One freezing December night later that year he was curled up on the Trevors’ sofa, one of last term’s textbooks in hand. He’d read it cover to cover twice now, but the amount of stuff he owned was becoming thinner and thinner. He read and re-read every book he owned, trying not to consider it was all he had._

_That, and Victor._

_And he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost at least one of those things._

_The front door opened, and he laid eyes on Mr. Trevor for the first time in almost forty-eight hours. His eyes widened as Mr. Trevor stepped into the light. He seemed merely a shell of the man he usually was. Deep, dark bags formed beneath his eyes. His clothes were wrinkled from naps in his office, and his hands trembled slightly, as though stiff from too much use. A briefcase hung limply from his fingertips. He let out a deep sigh as he was greeted by the warmth of his home, and a tired smile crossed his face when his eyes found Sherlock._

_“What are you still doing up?” Mr. Trevor asked._

_Sherlock just shrugged._

_“Victor?”_

_“Asleep,” Sherlock replied. “Hailey’s staying with a friend. Victor told her she could.”_

_Mr. Trevor snorted._

_“I’m glad my son thinks he can give her permission to leave for the weekend so you two can be alone.” Sherlock’s cheeks went red. “No worries, I would have done the same at your age. Mind if I have a seat?”_

_Sherlock shook his head, and Mr. Trevor collapsed on the couch with a heavy groan. He ran his hands through his hair for a moment and focused on catching his breath._

_“I wanted to talk to you,” Mr. Trevor finally began again. “We haven’t gotten much of a chance to since you two got back from school. How are you doing?”_

_He stiffened when he realized he was being watched._

_“Fine,” Sherlock lied._

_He wasn’t fine. As each day of the break passed he knew it would soon be time to tell Victor the truth…_

_“Really? Fine?” Mr. Trevor said. His eyes dashed away, his breath quickened. “Victor told me about what happened between you and your dad. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the floor and remained silent. He avoided this conversation for as long as he could. He still didn’t like talking to Victor about what happened, let alone anyone else._

_Mr. Trevor cleared his throat._

_“It’s really not my place, but if you wanted to press charges-“_

_“No.”_

_He immediately went pale. Victor pushed him toward the idea for months- of course he would run to his father for help._

_“We never really talked about what went on, but I saw the bruises, Sherlock-“_

_“I’m fine!”_

_Mr. Trevor stared at him, and he fell silent._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered._

_He never raised his voice to anyone in the Trevor family, but he couldn’t keep talking about this. He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want there to be an investigation, and he didn’t want anyone other than the Trevors to know._

_“I just don’t think you realize how bad you have it,” Mr. Trevor stated quietly. “Which is why I want to help.”_

_Sherlock looked up, startled._

_“You must be worried about how you’re going to get by,” he continued._

_He swallowed nervously; had he been that obvious? While his family had a decent amount of money, and he had been allotted some of it to help him with school, his father only loaned him money on a term-by-term basis. From Sherlock’s view the school fees were astronomical. Then there were books, food, and transportation. The list was endless, and as the days crept closer to start of term he spent more and more nights wide awake, wondering how he would manage it all._

_“Sherlock, I’ve seen a lot of young people get caught in really bad situations because they never had anyone to support them or care about them. Friend of my son’s or not, I don’t want that to happen to you. Life hasn’t been very fair to you, and you’re a good kid.”_

_His stomach was in knots, his heart was racing. He’d never felt more helpless and embarrassed. He didn’t like having another family offer to help him out…but at the same time he couldn’t deny the offer would really save him._

_“We haven’t known each other for very long, but my guess is things have been pretty bad for you for a while. What do you say I help you turn everything around?”_

_He stayed silent for a long time. He was certain Mr. Trevor could hear his stomach churn and his heart pound. He wasn’t stupid: he knew this wasn’t as easy as Victor’s father was making this seem. It would change the whole dynamic of his relationship with the Trevor family- with Victor._

_“How much time do you have left in school?” Mr. Trevor asked when he didn’t respond._

_“Two more years after next term,” he replied._

_“And you’re studying organic chemistry, yes?” He nodded. “So maybe additional schooling?”_

_“I thought about working during the summers,” Sherlock admitted._

_“Like in a shop?” Mr. Trevor said. There was a hint of a smile on his face, which only made Sherlock feel pathetic. He thought the idea sounded pretty plausible. “You have ambition, Sherlock. You re-read textbooks during breaks! Frankly, I think you have more passion than my own son. That shouldn’t be wasted because of a situation that’s out of your hands.”_

_He didn’t have the heart to admit he only studied so much because he was bored and a loner._

_“I’m not giving you a choice,” Mr. Trevor said. “I’ve talked to your school. Don’t worry about next term, Sherlock, please. I know you lost a lot because of your bad relationship with your father but trust me, getting out of there was the best thing you could have ever done.”_

_He chewed on his lower lip, finding only the energy to nod. Eyes glued to the floor, he stayed quiet as Mr. Trevor studied him._

_“Get some sleep,” Mr. Trevor suggested. “Are you doing Christmas dinner with us?”_

_Sherlock snapped out of his trance, stunned by the concept of something as simple as dinner after an offer like that._

_“Yeah,” he replied, absent-minded._

_Mr. Trevor nodded and simply smiled at him before leaving the room._

_And just like that, all of his problems were solved. A long sigh of relief escaped him, and the knot in his chest loosened. Suddenly a wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him and he closed his eyes, desperate to keep it together. He could still remember how disgruntled his father was about paying for school. His dad never had any faith that he would actually do anything with his education- or his life. He had no idea what Victor’s father saw in him. Perhaps he was just being nice. But he had to admit, it felt good to finally know that at least someone believed in him._

Sherlock immediately fell silent when he realized how far into the story he went. John was staring at him, stunned. They were parked just outside the perimeter of where he thought the address should be. It was marked simply with a number etched into a wooden stake in the ground, but they were sitting in a crossroad in the middle of a valley. A house may have once stood here, but there was nothing in sight and no sign of recent travel on the dusty road.

“So he just took you in?” John finally said. “Just like that?”

He didn’t reply. He looked out the window, trying to figure out what the secret was to this game. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John realized it, but it was quickly becoming evident that this was a trap. His eyes scanned the woods on his side of the car, but he found nothing but the shadows of a setting sun.

“Victor meant it when he said that man was the closest thing to a father you ever had,” John realized. “That’s incredible. It sounds like their family really saved you.”

“Why do you think they were so upset when I turned on them?” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yeah, but Sherlock…a DCI taking bribes like that? That’s huge.”

“Those bribes probably paid for my education.”

His eyes remained glued to the scenery around them. He was waiting to see a car in the distance, someone hiding amongst the trees, anything. Eventually he turned to his mobile, just to make sure he read the address correctly.

“I still can’t believe you just never finished school,” John replied.

“I had better things to do.”

He didn’t. No one ever knew this, but he resented the fact that he wasn’t able to finish school more than anything. Working with the police cured his boredom and provided an outlet for all that knowledge still stirring in his brain, but it was nothing compared to the opportunities he would have had.

“You know, John, not everyone comes from ideal families-“

“I didn’t say that!” John snapped. “Christ, you haven’t met my family yet.”

“What, did they hurt you too?” He couldn’t help it. His eyes flashed to John, who just stared at him, confused. If he wasn’t losing grip on his mind he would have noticed the concern and the warning that this was most definitely crossing the line. “Were you abandoned when you were just barely twenty-one? No. You went to medical school and joined the army. You had a brilliant career.”

“I got shot,” John said. He was breathing sharply, as though fighting everything inside him not to lose it. “I was shot, how do you think that felt? And my sister never talks to me. How do you think my conservative, Catholic, parents felt about her coming out as a lesbian when she was sixteen? You’re not as special as you think you are Sherlock, you-“

“John!” His eyes widened as he finally found what he was looking for: a car racing toward them from the adjacent road. He tried to start the engine but it stalled.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “You’re not even-“

“Something’s not right,” he breathed.

He couldn’t help the panic racing through him. His fingers shook a bit as he frantically dialed Mycroft’s number and tried the car again. Another stall.

“There’s just a lot about each other we don’t know. It doesn’t help when you never talk!”

“John, shut up!”

John’s mouth fell shut and his eyes lit up with frustration, but he didn’t care. The approaching car was closer than he realized, and he wanted to warn John but all he could do was reach out, desperate to protect him. On the other line, Mycroft was trying to get his attention, but his mind was too busy dancing from idea to idea, searching for a wait out. _The door_ , a voice in the back of his mind grumbled.

“John, we need to get out of here! They must have found out I’m with you. They’re trying to make sure we can’t get away-”

It was too late. The world seemed to stop as a sedan crashed into them. The sound of smashing glass erupted around them. John immediately slumped forward, his chin limply hanging against his neck. Someone screamed over the sound of glass just as his body was thrown against the driver’s side door. He was too sidetracked by the fiery pain igniting through him to realize the scream was his own. There was a sickening sound of a breaking bone, and glass was falling everywhere.

The car was tilting slightly, and he could only brace himself as he realized they were going to rollover. His side went over first, sending him knocking against the door once again. Beside him John was already unconscious. He tried to hold onto consciousness long enough to reach over to him, but the car rolled over again, his head smacked into the window, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter because I was afraid it was too cheesy all around, but things are about to change! If you haven't noticed already there is WAY more to this kidnapping than what you have been told!


	8. Chapter Eight

When he came to he was shocked to find how quiet it was. He felt like he was waking up to a surreal dream. It wasn’t long before he found the sound of his own, ragged, breathing. He stayed completely still, relishing the numbness of his body and delaying the pain he knew would inevitably hit once he moved. Something dripped into his eye- _blood_ \- and he blinked, fighting to see clearly again. The only thing that comforted him was the fact that the car was upright again.

“Sherlock.”

John’s trembling voice forced him to move his head, slowly and painfully, to the passenger seat. His breath hitched when he saw how shaken John was. He too stayed completely still, his arms pinned to his sides as though he physically could not move them.

That’s when he found the source of the blood. John’s leg had been pierced by a shard of glass from the broken windshield. It looked as though it bled so much a thick coating of red blood dried his torn jeans. While it seemed like his face was free of blood, broken glass covered him from head to toe and his skin was a ghostly pale.

“Sherlock,” John trembled again. “I can’t move.”

“I know,” he breathed. He rested his head against the seat, trying to catch his breath. “Everything’s…numb.”

“No,” John said. Panic rose in his voice, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him. “I can’t move. I can’t feel anything. I can’t move my legs. I think I might really be hurt.”

A pit settled in his stomach as he took a closer look at John. His legs were perfectly stiff. His eyes darted around, as though desperately searching for escape- but Sherlock knew it was a subconscious movement.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock moved for the first time as his good hand reached for his seatbelt. He exhaled sharply as all feeling returned to his arms. His right arm flared up in pain; he tried to ignore how the bone seemed to stick out in an odd direction. His left hand held the injured arm in place as he shifted over so that he was facing John. The smell of blood hit him immediately. John’s eyes stretched toward him, watching him as he moved.

“God, your head…” John rasped.

He glanced toward the rearview mirror, which hung broken off the roof. A thick cut zigzagged down the side of his forehead, right at the hairline. Blood still oozed out of it, and tiny shards of glass were caught inside. He drew in another deep breath and tried to get his mind off his own injuries.

That proved more difficult than he thought, as his right arm was proving to be more and more useless. Even worse, John noticed.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” John demanded.

“Just stiff.”

He gently pressed a finger against John’s thigh, testing out the area around the wound.

“Can you feel that?” He asked. John shook his head, eyes closed.

“I’m going to try to move it, just to see-“

“Don’t!” John exclaimed. Sherlock glanced at him, surprised. He’d never seen John look so afraid, but he knew it wasn’t fair to judge him. He couldn’t imagine the fear running through his mind at the very thought of sustaining a serious injury. “Don’t, Sherlock…what if something’s wrong with my spine?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in shock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous?” John shot. “ _I can’t move!_ ”

“Okay, calm down,” Sherlock said. “I need to get the glass out-“

“Don’t!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but to glare at him.

“For a doctor you’re being very difficult.”

“That’s because I’m relying on _you_ ,” John mumbled. “Just don’t…don’t do anything. Not yet. It’ll start bleeding again, and we don’t even have anything to stop the blood flow with. Let me just…just give me a moment.”

Sherlock set back in his seat, grateful for the space between them. He was finding it difficult to breath. The air was thick and smelled of blood; everything seemed to be closing in on them. Outside it was nightfall, but he was able to see well enough to find they weren’t very far from their original spot in the field. The car hadn’t rolled far enough to make it to the forest which, considering the amount of trees and uneven land, was something to be thankful for.

“I don’t get it,” John sighed. “Why try to kill me if they wanted me?”

He shook his head.

“Something changed,” he replied. “Something intimidated him.”

“Did you get a good look at the car?” John asked. “Doesn’t look like it stuck around.”

“Black sedan. 1999, maybe?”

He was too distracted by trying to rescue his mobile. The phone was wedged between the seat and the door. His heart raced as he reached down to see what condition it was in- and his heart fell when he saw the screen was cracked into a dozen pieces.

“Mine’s broken too,” John said when he saw his disappointment. “That I can sort of feel, sticking out of my pocket. Feels like it broke in two.”

“I was able to get a call out to Mycroft before we crashed,” he said. “Maybe he was able to trace the location.”

“If ever there was a time for Mycroft to be spying on our mobiles…”

They shared empty laughs, and the car fell silent. As he examined the state of it, Sherlock became impressed they weren’t any worse off. The front windshield was in a sea of pieces across the dashboard and seats. There was a spider web crack on his window where his head smacked into it, apparently multiple times judging by the bloodstains. But apart from the blood he was beginning to detect a new smell- from the engine.

“I think we should get out of the car,” Sherlock said, trying to not expose the panic crawling through him. His knowledge of cars was minimal, but he knew enough to realize the potential dangers of what could happen _after_ a crash.

John let out a hoarse laugh.

“How do you expect to do that?”

Sherlock examined the passenger side of the car. The door was pushed in toward the inside of the car, but it still looked in tact enough. The passenger window was missing, so if worst came to worse…

“I’ll pull you out,” Sherlock announced.

John groaned.

“Could this get any worse?”

 _Please don’t say that,_ he thought. He was ignoring the fact that once they got outside they were alone, at night, in the middle of nowhere with no water and no phones. He moved to open his door, but John stopped him.

“Sherlock-“ John had to pause to catch his breath. “Be careful. Either one of us could have internal injuries, back injuries…not to mention concussions.”

The thought terrified him but he nodded, trying to appear calm.

The fresh air was a welcomed relief as he tumbled out of the car. He didn’t remember it being so cold but he shivered, shoving his injured arm deeper into his coat. It took more effort than he imagined just to get to the other side of the car. He practically dragged his body to the passenger side, grasping his limp right arm. He had to tuck on the passenger door a few times before it finally jerked open. John looked up at him as they were finally faced to face.

“Hi,” John greeted weakly.

A tired smile crossed Sherlock’s face.

“Are you sure you’re alright with the glass?” He asked.

John offered a stiff nod. His hand grasped the wound, holding his leg steady.

“Yeah,” John breathed, shaking a little. “Here just…put your arms around my back and legs.”

He wanted to point out that he couldn’t move his arm, let alone reach into the car with it, but he knew he had no choice. Taking a deep breath he bit his lip, forcing himself to ignore the pain. It felt like fire shot through his arms as he reached underneath John to pick him up. John reached up to wrap his arms around his neck, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to stiffen when he realized just how close they were.

“God this is embarrassing,” John mumbled.

“I’m more concerned about the fact that you can’t move,” Sherlock shot.

Nevertheless, the hairs seemed to stand up on the back of his neck as John held onto him tightly. He had to bite back a scream of pain as he pulled John out of the car. The two only made it as far as the grass in front of the hood before collapsing.

“Sorry,” John muttered as they caught their breath. “I must be twice your size.”

Sherlock shook his head. His good hand shook as it clutched his injured arm, which if possible hurt even worse than before. The pain was so intense it was all he could think about.

“How’s the leg?” Sherlock asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” John said. He groaned when he tried to move. “God, it feels like I have lead for legs.”

“What do you think that mean?”

They exchanged glances, and upon seeing the faraway look in John’s eyes Sherlock knew there was something he wasn’t telling him.

“There could be a lot of swelling. It could be some sort of horrible whiplash or shock from having a car plunge into my side. Or it could be paralysis.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he thought he might throw up. His eyes were blown wide with terror, and John must have noticed because he quickly offered:

“But I highly doubt it. I’d be much worse off if that were the case. I could feel that car crash right into my side of the vehicle. It’s no wonder my body’s taking a bit longer to adjust.”

Sherlock nodded as his eyes wondered around the empty field. He wanted to understand and be able to remain just as calm as John, but all he could think of was the idea of rolling John around crime scenes in a wheelchair. If it came to that he would never forgive himself.

“I was conscious the whole time,” he admitted. John’s eyes went wide. “You went out almost immediately. There was blood everywhere. I knew something happened to you. The impact sent me into the driver’s side door. We rolled over once…twice. Glass was everywhere. You were…gone. My head smacked against the window, and I was out too.”

John swallowed as he took it all in. He looked even paler than before.

“I woke up to my own screams,” John whispered. “I couldn’t feel anything, it was like I was floating. But I knew it should hurt, and I expected there to be pain. I was so terrified that I couldn’t move. I looked over and you…your face was covered in blood. I could see where it hit the window. I called your name a good ten minutes before you finally came to. Sherlock, that cut looks horrible. You could have a concussion-“

“I could have a lot of things. It’s fine, I just…we should save our energy. We’re only about twenty minutes from that town we passed. I think I can make it.”

“No! It’s night, and whoever did this to us is still out there.”

“I don’t care. You should be in hospital.”

“You’re going to leave me here then?”

Their eyes connected, and Sherlock truly felt sick. John’s eyes pleaded with him, and he never looked so desperate and hurt. He was truly afraid of being left here alone, Sherlock realized. But there was no better option, and he had to be the one to step up.

“I have no choice,” he said. “Otherwise we have to stay here and hope Mycroft-“

“Sounds good to me.”

John looked away, as though embarrassed at how desperate he was acting.

“You know, you never got to finish the story,” John pointed out quietly.

A small laugh escaped him.

“There are more important things to be concerned about right now.

“Yeah, but a car just crashed into us. And I need a distraction.”

They stared at each other, and he was pleased to see even the faintest of smiles peer from John’s lips.

“Fine,” he mumbled. He looked at the grass beneath them for a minute, trying to keep his thoughts together. His mind was a bit jumbled; one thought couldn’t seem to connect to the next. He didn’t dare mentioned this to John, as he knew what he would say: concussion. Instead he simply continued: “Things calmed down a bit after the Trevors took me in. I went back to school, but I was still so rattled by everything that I continued to just ignored everyone. And Victor wouldn’t have that.”

_He followed the dance of his fingers across the violin strings as the sounds of Mozart filled his dormitory. He’d been going at it for hours; he only noticed the change from night to morning from the rays of sunlight beaming through the window. Outside his room the hallways went from bustling with sounds of students heading out to enjoy their Saturday to silent as he was left alone- which is exactly how he liked it. As the hours past he found himself feeling less and less inclined to keep mind of volume, and soon he was playing so loudly he didn’t hear his door open._

_“It’s beautiful.” He jumped at the sound of Victor’s voice. His fingers slipped on the strings, resulting in a horrible screeching noise as he took in the presence of his boyfriend. Victor held up a spare key he made, ignoring the school rules against doing so. “How come I’ve never heard you play?”_

_Victor leaned in, and Sherlock allowed their lips to brush in a quick kiss. The touch instantly brought the familiar feeling of guilt back. Two weeks into term, and he hardly hung out with Victor at all._

_“It’s brutal out there,” Victor said. “I’m starting to see why you like staying in so much.”_

_Victor wasn’t grinning, and Sherlock realized it was a cheap shot at him._

_“Mind if I see?” Victor said, pointing at the violin._

_Sherlock glanced down at the instrument. He actually did mind. He was protective of the violin, probably obsessively so. But if it earned him points with Victor, he thought perhaps he should make an exception._

_“Here,” Sherlock said, taking his head. He led him toward the edge of the bed, and soon they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Gently, Sherlock placed the fingers of Victor’s left hand on the strings. “Like this.”_

_He took the bow and placed it in the fingers of his right hand._

_“Like that,” Sherlock continued._

_Placing his own fingertips over Victor’s he began plucking a simple children’s song._

_“This is how you started out then?” Victor snorted. “You didn’t just jump into playing Bach like you’re part of the bloody orchestra?”_

_Sherlock grinned. He decided against correcting Victor on his lack of musical knowledge. Victor was smiling like an idiot as he continued fingering the song._

_“I notice you’re not using the bow,” Victor said._

_“Don’t want to startle the neighbors,” Sherlock replied._

_They burst out laughing, and Victor wiggled away._

_“I’m crossing music off my list of potential hobbies,” Victor said. “No wonder Hailey’s so bloody awful at it. I bet it takes years to master this stuff.”_

_Sherlock shrugged._

_“Took me about six months,” he admitted. “Mycroft says music’s in our blood.”_

_He stopped short, realizing what he said. Victor studied him, confused- and a bit hurt. Sherlock’s eyes darted away, and he desperately hoped Victor would simply ignore the slip._

_“You never talk about your brother,” Victor said quietly._

_“He’s not worth talking about.”_

_He fell silent and was grateful with Victor took his lead. They sat in silence for a moment until Sherlock stood, putting away the violin just for something to do._

_“There’s something I want to tell you,” Victor announced._

_He turned toward him, slowly, heart racing ever so slightly. The way Victor’s eyes lit up offered him hope this wasn’t the dreaded “I don’t know where this is going” conversation he feared would happen. The more time got away from him and he realized how little he paid attention to their relationship, the more he would realize how much he treasured it. What he couldn’t figure out was why he would get so torn about it. Why couldn’t he just be open and normal, like Victor?_

_“Jesus, I’m not breaking up with you!” Victor laughed. “Come here.”_

_Victor crawled back until he was sitting against the headboard. Familiar nerves danced in his stomach, like always whenever they were close, though he knew he should be used to this by now. Nevertheless, Sherlock climbed on the mattress beside him._

_“So I’ve had this realization,” Victor began. Sherlock couldn’t help but to notice Victor was avoiding his eyes, as though suddenly afraid of what he might think. It was almost refreshing to see Victor was uncomfortable too. “I hate teaching.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened. No, this was very much not about them._

_“I thought it’s what you were meant to do,” Sherlock said, trying not to sound taunting._

_“Me too!” Victor explained. “But I’m so close to finishing uni, and I still can’t get over the fear of it. I think I need to do something a bit more…low key. I think I want to be a lawyer.”_

_He couldn’t help but to snort, and he had to bite his lip to suppress a grin. Victor didn’t look amused._

_“You want low key so you’re going to be a lawyer?” He said. “Why don’t you just go for…receptionist?”_

_Victor’s cheeks turned a slight shade of red, and Sherlock found himself enjoying this more and more._

_“I don’t think I’ll like the kids,” Victor admitted._

_“At least you’re figuring this out now and not on the first day.”_

_“Shut up, okay?” Victor shot. “It’s not been an easy decision. It was hard enough convincing Dad this was a good career choice in the first place. I didn’t have the heart to admit to him I’ve been miserable at school for the past year.”_

_“The past year?” Sherlock asked. “Really?”_

_Past year, he couldn’t help but to think, about as long as they were together._

_“I just…I can’t decide,” Victor sighed. “I need more time.”_

_“You’re supposed to graduate this summer!”_

_They stared at each other, and suddenly Sherlock’s breath hitched. He realized what this was about. The two were close enough to the same age to not make dating awkward, but it made all the difference in the world when it came to university. Victor would graduate first, they always knew this. Apparently Victor was still in denial._

_“Don’t do this,” Sherlock said. “Don’t start second guessing because of-“_

_“It’s not just because of you,” Victor insisted. “It’s what I want, really. I’ll figure things out with administration and Dad. I just wanted your approval first.”_

_A small smile peered from his own lips._

_“My approval?” Sherlock repeated._

_Victor looked helpless, almost childlike, and Sherlock felt the need to lean in and kiss him just to bring him back to reality. Suddenly his tongue slipped into Victor’s mouth, deepening the kiss._

“Stop!” John groaned. “I said PG. _Please._ Is that all you two did?!”

Sherlock grinned.

“So he stayed the extra year?” John continued.

The grin faded. Sherlock’s eyes danced to the trees. Suddenly he wished he picked a different part of the story to tell.

“He did, but it wasn’t like we thought it would be,” he admitted. “Everything changed that summer.”

They both looked to the ground. The night stood silent around them. The ruined remains of the car sat just behind them, and at the thought of the accident his thoughts immediately returned to John’s injuries. His eyes trailed back to John, to his hands grasping the wound at his thigh. It stopped bleeding, but the glass was still in there.

“We should really get that out,” Sherlock said, pointing at the glass.

John paled.

“It’s fine,” John said, his voice slightly higher pitched than normal.

“No,” Sherlock insisted. “It’s not, here.”

He situated himself so that he was facing John, practically straddling his legs. They both tensed up, but he ignored it as he forced John’s hand away from his thigh.

“This is really not a good-“

“Shut up.” They glared at each other. He grabbed hold of the glass, testing it. It seemed like a sturdy enough shard, one that possibly wouldn’t break apart too horribly. “On the count of three, all right?”

John nodded and closed his eyes.

“Oh god,” John mumbled, biting his lip.

Sherlock placed his arm around the base of the shrapnel.

“One,” he breathed. John tensed even more. “Two-“

He pulled the glass out. John’s screams echoed through the stiff night as he threw Sherlock’s hands out of the way and grasped the wound. It was bleeding again.

“Fuck!” John exclaimed. “You said three!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Come on, John, you’re a doctor! Everyone knows when they say count of three they really meant two. The anticipation’s the worst part, remember?”

John only glared at him. The bleeding seemed to slow as soon as it began, and John at last took a deep breath. He tested his leg, and Sherlock remembered only then to get off him.

“Anything?” Sherlock asked, holding his breath.

John shook his head. His eyes closed once again, and he knew John was doing his best to fight back tears. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “I promise.”

His flatmate glanced up at him again. He looked as though he wanted nothing more in the world than to believe him. But he just couldn’t.

The sudden sound of an engine drew their attention to the road. Headlights appeared in the distance.

“Oh god,” John whispered. “They’ve come back. They know we’re alive.”

“Of course they’ve come back,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. He winced at the stiffness and grabbed his arm, which was still burning with pain. “They want you, remember?”

“Yeah, well good thing they almost killed me first.” The headlights flashed, and John began to panic. “They’re getting close!”

Sherlock glanced down at him, willing for him to stay calm. That’s when he realized: the man wanted John. That’s what he claimed- that’s what was so important. But clearly whoever the kidnapper was, he wasn’t working alone. He wouldn’t have been able to arrange for the crash and keep an eye on Hailey all at the same time. This had to be more than just Hailey and money. It was a group of them, working together…

_A group._

Suddenly he felt sick.

“John, I didn’t get to tell you enough of the story,” he admitted.

“That doesn’t matter now!” John exclaimed. “Sherlock, these people want us dead. They’re going to use us- use me- take the money, and kill us!”

“It matters because Mr. Trevor wasn’t the only one dealing with drug dealers!” Sherlock said. His voice was wavering now. The realization that there had to be more than one kidnapper, the assumption that the money didn’t seem to matter. That maybe _John_ didn’t even matter. A _group_ of people... “I was too.”

“What?”

He knew his confession wasn’t helping keep John calm down, but he didn’t care.

“This isn’t about the money, the money’s a distraction,” Sherlock realized.

“You’re not making sense!”

He knew John was feeling helpless, trapped on the ground while his own mind raced in panic.

“I told you everything changed that summer,” he said. He drew in a deep breath, knowing this next confession would change everything. “Everything changed because I started doing drugs.”

Their eyes met. John was confused, hurt, _stunned_ at the confession, but he didn’t have time to explain. The car stopped, and a door opened.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: You'll notice this chapter comes with new tags. This chapter contains EXPLICIT DRUG USE AND SEX. Also, bad language. I'm not exaggerating. 
> 
> Also, this is a flashback chapter. Think of it as what's going through Sherlock's mind as he's fighting for consciousness and dealing with all that past that's coming back to haunt him.

“Do you have to be so timid?” Victor asked, glancing at him over his beer.

Sherlock clung to the wall, determined to hide in plain sight. Somehow he let Victor talk him into a party at a flat owned by a few of Victor’s friends. To say he was uncomfortable being there would be the understatement of the year. He had a drink in hand and sipped it occasionally, but the alcohol did nothing to ease his nerves.

“Why is it that every time I drag you out to one of these things you just glue yourself to the wall like a…moth…or something?”

Snorting, Sherlock shot:

“Because you always _drag_ me to parties,” Sherlock said. “Haven’t you noticed by now that people think I’m weird? Bringing me here is like torture.”

Victor laughed and took a longer-than-necessary gulp of beer, as though he needed it just to get through the conversation.

“You need to loosen up,” Victor said. “There are tons of people here. Do you seriously not know anyone?”

His eyes roamed around the flat, just to please Victor. He noticed a few people from previous courses, but no one worth noting. Then his eyes met those of a short brunette he immediately recognized. She seemed to notice him staring because he was met with a small smile. Though surrounded by a group of friends she stood with her arms wrapped around her chest, fingers clinging to a half-empty glass. Obviously she wasn’t too comfortable either. She nodded toward the door, and he offered a quick nod in return.

“Actually…” was all he offered before disappearing out of the flat.

“Hey.”

Sherlock down, finding her sitting on the stoop just outside the flat.

“Shauna, right?” He asked as he sat down.

“Right,” she said with a laugh. “Every time you see me you look like you’re trying to determine if you know me.”

His cheeks reddened a bit, which only had her laughing harder. They met at the beginning of term in one of the organic chemistry courses. So far they had only shared a few conversations in the halls before class, but he noticed her quite a bit around campus. He couldn’t help but to notice she was always alone; seeing her with a group of friends shocked him.

“Are you here with friends?” He asked.

He tried to keep in mind Victor’s advice about being outgoing. Whenever he did talk with Shauna he noticed she seemed to need just as much guidance as he did when it came to being around other people.

“Sort of,” she replied. “Just some mates from an old class. Your boyfriend isn’t going to get jealous that you’re talking to me, is he?”

She grinned as he choked on his drink.

“He better not,” Sherlock said. “He’s been bothering me all night about talking to people.”

“Same here,” she admitted. “They keep pressuring me to talk to one of the guys. They’re so obsessed with dating and sex…honestly I’d just like to get through the next couple of months without failing any courses.”

“Are you about to graduate?”

She nodded and reached into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. His heart skipped a beat when she handed one of the cigarettes to him.

“What?” She shot, her eyes dancing with amusement at his hesitation. “You’re not afraid to shag another bloke, but a cigarette shocks you?”

Swallowing nervously, Sherlock allowed himself a moment of panic before doing what he knew he inevitably had to do. It was just one, right? One for the sake of actually having someone to talk to? He held out his hand, tensing a bit to keep from trembling. She lit it for him, and he drew in a few deep breaths before bringing the cigarette to his lips.

At the first inhale he erupted into coughs. His lungs immediately began to sting, and his eyes watered.

“It’s just the shock of it at first,” she said. “Give it a couple of tries, and it’ll begin to take the edge off.”

As if to prove a point, she exhaled slowly, seeming completely at ease.

“Yeah, I’m not sure it’s for me,” he admitted, staring at the cigarette for a moment before bringing it up once again.

A few more raspy coughs escaped him, and he gave up, putting the light out against the pavement.

“Thanks, but I think I’m fine with having lungs,” he said.

He was grateful when she grinned again, instead of mocking him.

“I should get back to my mates,” she replied, getting to her feet.

His heart sank a bit as she left him with nothing more than a quiet goodbye. For a moment he was angry with himself, wondering what it was about him that had to be so _complicated_. Then he let out a shaky breath, embracing the flow of air into his lungs, and was reminded why smoking was a terrible idea.

“Are you alright?” He looked up to find Victor standing above him. Sherlock hoped his relief at seeing him wasn’t too obvious as he got to his feet. “Who was she?”

Nerves crawled in his stomach, but when he saw Victor’s eyes twinkle he knew he wasn’t jealous.

“Just a classmate,” he replied.

“Cool,” was all Victor said. He glanced around the street, noting it was much less busier than earlier. He knew it must be late, and at the first thought of sleep his body seemed to shut down. “Ready to get out of here?”

Sherlock nodded and started down the steps without waiting for permission. As they started down the street Victor leaned in for a kiss but pulled back immediately. Sherlock’s eyes darted away at Victor’s disgusted look.

“Oh my god, were you actually smoking?” Victor shot.  Sherlock froze up; he didn’t expect to be found out _that_ quickly. “That’s adorable, Sherlock. I suppose she talked you into it?”

He swallowed, trying to form words, but he was stumped. Victor only laughed.

“You smell like a fucking chimney! No more, alright? You had your flirting, and I’ve learned my lesson about leaving you alone at parties.”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Sherlock exclaimed, horrified. He realized quickly that Victor was only joking, and his face fell. “I’m heading back to my room. Don’t snog me if you don’t like the smell.”

He tried to turn away but he was pulled by the arm back toward Victor, who trapped him in a smooth, quick, kiss. Victor broke apart, staring at him.

“Disgusting,” Victor grinned.

 

The next time he tried anything it was at another party with Victor. The party was intimate: just him, Victor, and a couple of other blokes (whom he was only half certain were not a couple). He managed to stay quiet most of the evening, laying back on the couch as Victor chatted about football stats. He was impressed with his ability to stay awake; he kept fighting the urge to inch over into Victor’s arms and close his eyes.

_So boring._

Then one of the other blokes- James, he thought it was- did something that made even Victor fall silent. He pulled out a bag of white drugs from a nearby drawer and began dishing it onto the table, like it was as innocent as Jelly Babies. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as his heart started racing, but he didn’t dare speak. He glanced to Victor, desperately hoping he would make some excuse for them to leave, but Victor only swallowed nervously and stayed silent.

“Sorry if we’re boring you, Sherlock,” James said. Sherlock tensed; had he really been that transparent? More importantly- did he really care that much what they thought? “Let me make it up to you.”

He knew James was only a year older than he was, but somehow he felt like he was being talking down to, adult to child. His stomach twisted into knots as James began doing lines. When he sat up again he looked directly at Sherlock.

“Go ahead,” James offered.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as a hit was handed to him. Victor immediately sat up, placing a hand between him and James.

“No, Sherlock,” Victor warned. “You don’t have to.”

James only laughed and glanced over to his friend, whose eyes were twinkling in amusement.

“Forgive me, I only assumed you used. I only ever see Victor when he’s high as a kite, so I assumed he brought you along for the ride this time.”

He turned violently toward Victor. His boyfriend’s eyes were filled with fear and shame; he nearly looked like he wanted to cry and throw up at the same time. Sherlock’s throat felt raw. His head and heart pounded.

“It’s bad for me to try a cigarette, but it’s alright for you to do drugs?!” He exclaimed.

“Sherlock-“

“Fucking hell, Victor!” He jumped to his feet, glaring daggers at Victor, who only cowered into the corner of the sofa. “Fuck…you just _do coke_?”

“It’s not like that!” Victor pleaded. “It was just once or twice, he’s exaggerating.”

“Your friend has terrible memory,” James grinned at Sherlock. “Come on, Victor. You don’t want him to feel left out, do you?”

“It’s nice to know this is what I’m missing out on!” Sherlock shot. Now _he_ was fighting tears. How did everything go from boring and dull to the world crashing at his feet? He could already feel Victor slipping away from him, and he was slipping so easily it terrified him. It felt too awkward to be standing so he threw himself back into the sofa. Victor inched away from him, staring at him in horror.

“It was a stupid mistake, Sherlock,” Victor whispered.

“But you would have done it again if I weren’t here, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock said. “You looked pretty surprised when I agreed to come- but you weren’t surprised, were you? You were disappointed.”

He couldn’t remember ever being this angry, this vocal, about anything. For the first time he could feel the shell around him breaking- and for all the wrong reasons. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to James and held out his hand. By now, James had already prepared some more for himself too.

“Go on then,” Sherlock said.

“No!” Victor moaned in protested, grabbing at his head. “Let’s just leave, Sherlock. Come on.”

Sherlock swirled toward him, mouth agape.

“I can handle this, Victor.”

He held his hand closer, and James passed the coke to him.

“Like this,” James instructed.

He snorted the drug, freezing for just a moment as it hit him. Then he breathed a sigh of relief, his grin spreading even wider.

“You gotta give it a try,” James said.

“Don’t, Sherlock!” Victor cried again. Sherlock looked down to find Victor’s fingernails digging into his arm. “You’re not as stupid as I am.”

Their eyes met, and Sherlock couldn’t decide if he believed him or not.

Which was why he drew in a deep breath himself and went for it.

He was almost disappointed when nothing immediately happened, but he reminded himself that it would take a minute for the hit to affect him. His brain seemed to run hot and head seemed to spin, but other than that he felt right as rain. His face scrunched up a bit at the sensation as he tried to take it all in.

James and his friend were laughing.

“Christ, you should see your face!” James exclaimed. “You looked like you just swallowed a fucking fire bolt. It’s just one go, man. Wait until it really hits.”

Sherlock’s hands trembled as he picked up the next roll, shocking even James.

“Slow down, mate!” James warned.

But instead of taking it, he passed it to Victor.

“Go on, then,” Sherlock shot. “You like it so much. Do it.”

He could see the _want_ in Victor’s eyes, and it made him sick. He wasn’t stupid enough to think Victor was actually an addict, but he was addicted to the thrill of it. The partying, the pressure- Victor thrived on that stuff.

It felt like his eyes were spinning in his head as he watched Victor take the shot. His boyfriend’s eyes slammed shut for a moment, and when they opened again they were blown wide.

“Fucking hell,” Victor mumbled. “Fucking _shit_.”

He felt into a crumble back into the cushions, and Sherlock followed, staring at him.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Victor whispered.

“Yeah?” Sherlock said. “Well I wish I had known you were out getting wasted.”

Victor laughed; his eyes were already dilated. Sherlock could feel his own heart pounding faster and faster.

“You two are bloody helpless,” James said.

He eased back into the couch, into the arms of his friend. As they scooted closer together Sherlock stiffened, embarrassed, when he realized his original suspicions about those two were right.

“How long do the effects last?” Sherlock asked.

His hands were already trembling in anxiety. It seemed like every minute he felt a new effect. The weight he usually carried around on his shoulders- the stress, the anxiety, the self-consciousness- was peeling away.

James shrugged.

“A half hour, maybe?” Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock of the answer. _Then what was the point?!_ “But don’t worry, we have plenty!”

The world seemed to lighten up around him. He felt almost like he was seeing it through someone else’s eyes- like _this_ was how everyone else lived. He felt so…carefree…but Victor’s worrying only started to make him feel anxious again.

“Christ, I can’t do this again,” Victor mumbled. “You guys are trying to fucking kill me.”

“If we were trying to kill you, I’d go get some this stuff this guy down on the corner sold me.”

James’ friend’s face hardened immediately, just as Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat in excitement.

“But we’re not. It’s his first try, James, go easy on him,” he said. He held a hand out to Sherlock. “Andrew, by the way. I don’t think I ever said.”

“He’s a bit like you,” James said as they shook hands. “Quiet, except when he’s wasted.”

“Sherlock doesn’t get wasted,” Victor shot. “Sherlock’s just… _Sherlock_. He spent an entire weekend teaching my sister about photosynthesis once. In the summer!”

James and Andrew roared with laughter, leaving Sherlock to turn a deep shade of red. The two scooted even closer together; James’ hand crept along his boyfriend’s thigh. They glanced at each other, reaching some kind of silent understanding.

“Well, we’re going to head upstairs,” James said. “You two feel free to stay or go. Take some with you, if you want. I’m feeling a bit generous tonight.”

He winked at Sherlock. As the two stood, James’ hand was already creeping down James’ back, and he quickly realized why they were desperate to get away. One glance toward Victor made him see his boyfriend was a bit on edge at well. At the very thought, something stirred inside him, sending blood rushing to his head and his chest tightening.

“They left us alone quickly,” Sherlock said, turning to Victor. Their hands found each other’s, collapsing together. “Want to take another hit?”

“We can’t,” Victor said, wrapping an arm around him. “Way too soon. But I can think of a good way to pass the time.”

Victor pulled him in close. The room fell silent as their lips brushed together. His hands found Victor’s shoulders, using them as leverage to pull himself closer.

“It’s like you’re the king of cheesy pick-up lines,” Sherlock murmured.

They kissed again, with Victor grinning against his lips.

“Yet it works every time.”

He gasped a little as Victor drew him in deeper. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest, trying to break free. His hands shook as he reached for the buttons of Victor’s shirt.

“You do remember we’re on someone else’s sofa,” Victor said.

“They practically gave us permission!”

Victor rolled his eyes.

“God you’re scary when you’re high.”

“It’s one hit,” Sherlock shot.

“Then one is all you’re getting!”

He suddenly found himself flipped onto his back as Victor changed their positions. Victor hovered over him, their bloodshot eyes staring into each other.

“Fuck,” Victor breathed. “We really shouldn’t-“

A loud moan erupted from somewhere above them, and Sherlock grinned.

“How long until they come looking for their next hit?” Sherlock said.

Victor shrugged.

“Another half hour?” He guessed.

Sherlock grasped his shirt collar, pulling Victor in closer. He felt so _alive_ that it was almost dreamlike. He was never this confident, this willing. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny voice was shouting for him to stop, asking him what he was doing, but a bigger part of him was able to push it away, ignoring all sense of- well, anything- completely.

Instead of replying, Victor began devouring his neck. Sherlock groaned as a Victor lightly bit at the skin from his neck to his chin, and back again. He stirred beneath him, itching to be able to move, to do _something_. Victor reached for the zipper of his trousers, but Sherlock put out a hand to stop him.

“Your place,” he panted. “It’s close and less…public.”

His face was completely flushed and his lips swollen from kissing as he gazed up at Victor hopefully. Victor glanced from him to the remaining drugs on the table and nodded.

“We should get out of here,” Victor agreed. “Just promise me Sherlock, this is the only time, okay?”

He gazed longly after the cocaine. His brain was pushing for more, more, more, but reality was starting to settle back in just as soon as it slipped away.

“Fuck,” he whispered, as it finally hit what they were doing. Victor practically had his hands down his pants, on some other bloke’s sofa, and they were getting high.

“Don’t think about it,” Victor pleaded. “Makes it worse.”

He leaned forward, dipping in for another kiss. When they came up for air again, Victor’s lips were right at his ear as he whispered:

“My place. _Now._ ”

They stayed closed together as they hurried down the street to the tube. The ride to Victor’s dorm was almost painful. He was trembling with anticipation. His entire body was shaking, he was sweating, and from the looks on the other passengers’ faces they knew exactly what was going on. Victor’s hand on his thigh only made things worse. He winced, pleading with himself to hold it together.

“Soon,” Victor whispered into his ear, leaning back a bit so everyone wouldn’t notice.

He grimaced, ashamed at how much his voice made everything so much _worse_.

By the time they reached Victor’s room it felt like his insides were trying to jump out of his skin. He gasped as Victor threw him back against the wall, throwing his arms back and ripping the buttons of his shirt open. He shuddered as a trail of kisses went down his chest, stopping at each nipple for a tease.

“Christ,” Sherlock groaned.

“You know what they say about coke, right?” Victor taunted with a wild grin. He placed another trail of open-mouth kisses along his stomach. Victor was practically kneeling now, and Sherlock feared he might be joining him soon as his limbs turned numb. “It can make you go at it for hours. All. Fucking. Night. With very little payoff.”

Sherlock moaned as Victor’s tongue ran up his neck.

“ _They_ say a lot of crazy shit,” Sherlock shot.

“You have a naughty mouth when you’re trying to get high,” Victor teased.

Sherlock let him shrug the rest of his shirt off as he got started on the buttons of Victor’s own clothes. His hands didn’t seem to know what to do as he fumbled with the cotton.

“One hit!” He exclaimed.

Victor only laughed as he dropped to the floor and began work on his trousers. Sherlock shuddered again as the rest of his clothing was jerked down, rather unceremoniously, around his ankles.

To be honest, he could hardly feel the drugs anymore. He was way more focused on Victor’s hands, perusing the sensitive skin of his upper thighs. Everything still seemed so much more _alive_ , from the dull lighting of the room to Victor’s panting breaths hot against his skin. And Victor’s fingers, wondering to a place only the two of them had ever explored…

“There’s something I think we should try,” Victor murmured against his leg. “But I think you would be more comfortable-“

“I don’t care!” Sherlock rasped. “Just…do… _something_.”

He never remembered being so desperate.

Suddenly a burning fire seemed to erupt in his cock and he moaned desperately, throwing himself back against the wall. His eyes flew open in shock as he felt something shimmy up his length, dancing gently against the skin. When he forced himself to look down again, he was stunned to see Victor down there, smiling mischievously as his tongue worked wonders.

“As I’m the only person who’s seen you with your trousers down, I’m assuming this is the first time you’ve had one of these,” Victor teased as he took him in deep.

Sherlock actually _yelped_ , and his head hit the wall, hard. But the pain only made it _so much better_. Victor took him in even deeper, and it felt like he hit something- _fuck_. The back of his throat. He didn’t understand how Victor was doing this without gagging.

“Oh _god_ ,” Sherlock moaned, grasping Victor’s hair, looking for any means of support.

He was becoming extremely concerned he would be left in a heap on the floor. Victor broke away for just a moment, leaving his cock desperate and wanting. They were both panting as Victor wiped at his mouth and his eyes trailed up to meeting him. Sherlock offered a small, grateful, smile.

“I don’t know what got into me,” Victor admitted. “Are you sure you’re-“

Sherlock grinned.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Victor allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet, only to be thrown against the wall himself. The change of pace sent Victor panting once against. Their breathing was uncontrollable. He could hear his own heart pounding, and he was sure Victor could as well. He placed each of Victor’s palms against the wall and pushed in against his back gently.

Out of curiosity, his finger trailed up to Victor’s heart. He listened for a moment and grinned at the desperate _thump, thump, thump_ that greeted him.

“You want this,” Sherlock whispered.

“Ch-christ!” Victor gasped. “You realize it’s the drugs. Feeling a bit larger than life, yeah?”

_Yes._

Sherlock grinned against Victor’s shoulders as his hands roamed his chest.

“A bit,” he admitted. His lips pressed against Victor’s neck. “I’m sure the drugs will wear off soon. Better hurry.”

Victor moaned, his eyes fluttering shut. Sherlock began working on his trousers, pulling them down along with his pants.

His eyes danced around the room. If only he knew where-

“In the drawer,” Victor whispered.

His eyes found the bedside table, and his grinned widened. Victor whimpered as he darted away long enough to grab lube and condoms.

“I could finish you, you know,” Victor rasped. “Take you in completely-“

“Shut up.”

He pushed Victor roughly against the wall as he slicked up a hand. It was true, he very much felt larger than life. He felt normal, _human_ , with his heart pounding and cock throbbing. Gone was the timid fear that usually enveloped him.

Victor cried out as the first finger entered him.

“Fuck!” Victor shot. “Careful, alright? I know you’re still not used to this but _fuck_! Slow down!”

He pulled his finger out a bit, gently, before pushing it in again. This time a low, desperate, moan escaped Victor, and Sherlock knew he was doing it right. He pulled out slowly.

“Another?” He whispered.

Victor nodded. They were both panting, sweating, shaking.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” Victor whispered, clawing at the wall as he pushed in with the two fingers.

His own cock stirred against Victor’s back, but not as hard as he usually should be by now. Victor’s warning floated back to him, but he pushed it aside. They would absolutely torture themselves if they had to go at it for hours until-

Victor screamed against as a third finger entered him.

“Someone’s vocal tonight,” Sherlock teased.

“Fucking drugs!” Victor rasped. His voice was shaking. “I swear they affect me worse. I can just _feel_ it.”

“What can you feel?”

They both froze; even he was shocked at his own question. He hardly ever talked during sex, outside of the typical moans and cries. Victor breathed in deeply before admitting:

“Everything’s so… _perfect_. I can feel it all. You breathing down my back, and your other hand on my hip-“

Just to tease him Sherlock drew the free hand away from his hip and to his arse, which he cupped roughly. Victor tightened immediately around his fingers and arched back, which only sent a wave of shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

 _“Sherlock,”_ Victor moaned. “Sherlock-“

He realized Victor’s hand batted against his arm, as though he legitimately wanted to say something.

“Sherlock, stop for a second,” Victor murmured. Sherlock obeyed, bringing his boyfriend closer, resting his chin on Victor’s shoulder. “Promise me something, okay? Promise me this was only tonight. No more drugs.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, surprised that he could even be thinking about having this conversation at a moment like this.

“Yeah,” Sherlock stammered. “Of course.”

“What we did was stupid,” Victor whispered, his voice shaking in the slightest. “So…so stupid. If anything ever happened, if you ever got…I would blame myself. So promise me, swear to me this was the only time.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling a bit stiff all over. Victor looked like he might melt from all the emotions overwhelming him. He turned in Sherlock’s arms so that they were facing each other again and brushed their lips together in a soft, comforting, kiss.

A small smile played on Victor’s lips.

“So…” Victor began again. “You were in the middle of something?”

 

He didn’t think about drugs for another two months. Exam time was brutal that term, leaving him a sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden mess. Nothing seemed to help until he remembered that night at the party…and he gave him. He swore it would only be once, then twice, then just a secret Victor could never find out about. He only did drugs alone, in the sanctuary of his room where he would ride out the effects and withdrawals. It was enough to get him through the last few weeks of school, until it was time to go back to the Trevor’s home.

They were greeted by Mr. Trevor at the train station. After taking their bags, Victor’s father led them to the car. Victor was so overflowing with the excitement of talking about that term and his plans that Sherlock didn’t even think about leaving his bag out of his sight.

Until they arrived back at the house and Mr. Trevor was screaming for them to get downstairs.

Sherlock’s heart immediately raced as he realized what was going on. Their bags were nearly identical as they sat, side by side, on the floor; but one was unzipped. A bag of cocaine dangled from Mr. Trevor’s fingertips. His cocaine.

He had to swallow quickly to not throw up on the spot. He could feel Victor staring at him, the anger burning deep in his eyes.

“Whose drugs are these?” Mr. Trevor demanded, eyes flashing between the two of them. Sherlock had never seen him so angry. The cop inside him was clearly surfacing. Victor tensed a bit, stepping backwards to put space between he and his father. “I’m only going to ask one more time, and I bloody well better have an answer or I swear to god I’ll take both of you down to the station. Who does this cocaine belong to?”

Victor’s hands were clenched into shaking fists by his side. He looked pale and more frightened than Sherlock had ever seen him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but forming words didn’t seem possible. Truth was he was terrified of what Mr. Trevor would do. Sherlock didn’t think he was a violent man, but he couldn’t help but to flinch when he raised his voice- all on instinct from hearing too much shouting from his own father. He had no doubt Mr. Trevor’s threat to take them to the station was legit.

“It’s mine.”

His boyfriend’s voice was so small and broken Sherlock wasn’t sure he heard correctly. He turned to Victor, eyes wide in horror. Then he turned to Mr. Trevor. Victor’s father looked like he might be sick. He threw the drugs on the counter and took a violent step toward his son. Victor flinched, closing his eyes, almost as though he expected to be hit.

“I have a kid in the house,” Mr. Trevor said, his voice shaking as he tried to keep it down. “A little girl. And she will not be exposed to this _shit_. Where did you get it?”

He never would have thought Mr. Trevor capable of swearing, and just the sound of it made him feel even more ill. He wanted to interrupt, to admit it all, but Victor was already in too deep. He couldn’t even find his own voice. He felt so small, standing there. If this was how angry Mr. Trevor was at his own son then he didn’t want to think of how angry he would be at him, and it was that selfish thought that kept his mouth shut.

“School,” Victor whispered. He swallowed, trying to find his strength again. “I swear I only tried it once. Someone must have stuck it in my bag as a joke. I promise! You know I’d never bring it into the house-“

“You tried it, and that’s the bloody point!” Mr. Trevor exclaimed. “Do you know many junkies I’ve had to literally pick up off the street because they were too high out of their minds to walk? I’ve seen kids, kids just your age, nearly die in hospital because some dealer talked them into biting off more than they could chew. It always starts with _just one_. What else is there? Do you smoke?”

“No,” Victor whimpered.

His eyes were shut. Sherlock had to look away himself; he secretly wished he would be sent out of the room.

“Do you drink? Were you planning on bringing alcohol into the house?”

“No! Dad _please_ -“

“Get out of my sight,” Mr. Trevor whispered. “I’m not going to kick you out because I don’t want to risk you going off and doing something stupid. What I should do is bring you to work with me every day and let you see for yourself what _just one_ hit can lead to. I should take you to the cemetery and let you see the graves of junkies and innocent victims of crimes because someone’s mind was so corrupt from drugs they could torment another human being.”

Victor trembled, and Sherlock was certain he was going to be sick when he saw a tear trickle from Victor’s eye.

“Go to your room,” Mr. Trevor ordered. “I don’t want you talking to Hailey. I don’t want her around any of your friends that got you into this. Get upstairs, now. Sherlock, I want to talk to you later.”

Victor turned, fleeing the room before his father could say another word. Sherlock tore after him.

“Victor-“ he began as soon as they entered Victor’s bedroom.

A fist met his face as Victor swirled around. He cried out in surprise, grasping his jaw. Victor threw his arm out again, but he was too overwhelmed with emotion to make the hit. This time Sherlock was able to dodge him, grabbing his fist instead and shoving him away. Instead, Victor grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the door.

“You prick!” Victor screamed; he was opening crying now. “You fucking bastard! I should have told him everything! I should have let him take you in for possession!”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

The room fell silent for a moment at Sherlock’s cry. Victor stared at him, breathing hard. The tears finally seemed to stop.

“Because he would have thrown you out,” Victor whispered. “My father adores you, Sherlock, but he doesn’t tolerate this shit. He’s fucking DCI, for Christ’s sake! He can’t have bloody drugs in his house! I have a sister, she’s just a kid!”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered.

“You don’t deserve jail, or the streets,” Victor admitted. “But I can’t forgive you for this.”

“Just let me explain-“

“Explain what?” Victor said, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Explain how you broke a promise? Explain how you’re ruining your health, your body, your life?”

“It was only a couple of times,” he promised. “I swear. I must have just left those in there by accident.”

Victor laughed even louder by now, running his hands through his hair.

“By accident?” Victor repeated. “You brought drugs into my father’s house _by accident_?”

“Please!” Sherlock pleaded. Now he was on the verge of tears. “Some blokes at school wanted me to try it. This term, it was just too much. The pressure, the courses…the exams were killing me, and I just needed to relax. I just needed confidence. I’m sorry that I’m not brilliant, and outgoing, and popular like you-“

Victor burst out laughing this time.

“Oh Christ!” Victor exclaimed. “If you think I’m popular than you must be losing it. Sherlock, you can’t do this. You can’t crumble under pressure every time things get hard. I know you’ve been through shit, and I’m sorry I hit you, but you just…you just can’t!”

“I know,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He stepped closer, hoping he could coax Victor into silent by drawing him near. Instead Victor flinched, backing away.

“Can you just get out of here?” Victor mumbled. “I just…I just need time, alright?”

Sherlock was grateful Victor didn’t yell at him any more than that. He could take the punch to the face if it meant there was still hope for them. He slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. The unmistakable sound of Victor’s muffled screams trailed behind him as he trudged down the steps.

Mr. Trevor was collapsed on the sofa when he went back downstairs.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Sherlock said quietly.

Victor’s father studied him for a moment and Sherlock swallowed, wondered what he was really thinking. Had he figured out the truth already? Should he tell him the truth?

Then he remembered what Victor said about being kicked out, and he knew it wasn’t worth it. He had to at least have somewhere to stay, somewhere safe, even if everyone hated him. As long as he was _safe_ he could manage.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Trevor said. His voice sounded far more broken than normal. Judging by his red-rimmed eyes, he had his own emotional breakdown. “Are you hungry?”

He was, but that didn’t matter now so he shook his head. Mr. Trevor drew in a deep, shaky, breath before he began again.

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that. Did you…did you know?” He asked.

Sherlock bit his lip. _This is where it really begins,_ he thought. The lying would have to go on like this all summer. And he hated it already.

He simply shook his head again. Mr. Trevor nodded, empathetic.

“I only got so upset because I was thinking of all those kids, in the morgue,” Mr. Trevor said softly. His face was pale and his eyes were trapped in a faraway horror Sherlock never wanted to experience. “I know kids do stupid things. They try things, they meet weird people. I just never thought it would happen to my son. I thought that somehow, somehow he would just…know better.” He paused for a moment as he drew in another shaky breath. “I understand if you’re upset. If you don’t feel comfortable staying…if you need some time.”

Sherlock quickly shook his head.

“I…I’ll be fine,” he whispered. He sure he looked just as pale and sickly as Mr. Trevor. “We just need time.”

Mr. Trevor nodded, his eyes so distant Sherlock wasn’t sure if he actually heard him.

“Get some rest,” Mr. Trevor said. “You look exhausted. I suppose we’ll all learn to deal with this. If it makes any difference…can you tell Victor I’m sorry I exploded? I just…I’m just afraid. I’m bloody terrified for my kids. I worry about them, constantly.” The smallest of smiles crossed his face. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that part.”

Sherlock offered a stiff nod, as he was afraid to show any emotion at all. He didn’t protest when he was left alone. Instead he sank into the sofa, lacking the energy to even go back upstairs. He curled up into a tight ball, staring ahead at the fireplace as he took in all that just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how brilliant you all are? Absolutely brilliant! Seriously, you all make my day! Thank you so much for each and every one of your reviews! 
> 
> I experimented a bit with the flashback formatting this chapter. Since there was so much to tell I thought a flashback chapter was in order. What do you think of that style? Which seems to work better- flashbacks mixed in with story or flashbacks on their own? There's so much important back story info to tell in this story, so I want to tell it in interesting ways that aren't always the same old same old. There will most definitely be more Sherlock and John back story chats in the future!
> 
> Speaking of Sherlock and John...
> 
> To be continued! Let me know what you think!!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a massive twist, one that I debated about a lot when I was originally planning the story. I never expected this story to be so well-received...so I really hope the twist isn't a turn-off to anyone! Give it a chance! I promise, things are about to get really, really interesting!

Sherlock woke to the sound of a dripping pipe. A painful groan escaped him as he adjusted to the hard ground he was laying on. His right arm stretched out at an awkward angle beside him, but his body felt oddly numb as he moved and realized nothing hurt. His mind was still fuzzy, and his vision danced before his eyes when he sat up.

The only light came from underneath a nearby door, but it was enough to see the silhouette of a man lying on the floor nearby. He forced himself up enough to be able to crawl over to him. Just the small effort left him breathless and fuzzy. _Drugged,_ he realized.

Breathing hard, he reached over so that he could roll the man back onto his back. Right away he noticed the blood everywhere, and the fact the man was holding a hand tightly to his ribs. Sherlock’s eyes trailed from the wound to the man’s face, which was littered with bruises. But beneath the black and blue, Sherlock realized he recognize this man.

He froze, and his heart slowed to a stop. No longer was Sherlock thinking of the bruises and blood covering the victim but the fact that he _knew_ him. It was a man who was supposed to be dead.

James Trevor.

His hands began to tremble as a new wave of fear hit him. He felt like he was having a strange out of body experience as his hands tested the wound, which was obviously caused by a knife. Sherlock couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was trying to save the life of a dead man.

He was brought back into reality with the realization that Mr. Trevor was actually conscious and muttering rapidly, not making any sense at all. Sherlock swallowed, wanting to call out to him and say something, but he was too stunned to speak. All he could think of was the look on Victor’s face when they got the call about his death. He thought of Victor breaking down at his father’s funeral and his fist cutting across Sherlock’s jaw. And Hailey…a decade later and he still couldn’t get that horrifying image of Hailey shaking and crying uncontrollably at the service.

“Doctor…” his heart skipped at beat as the first understandable word. “Need…doctor.”

His eyebrows furrowed at the thought of Mr. Trevor asking for help in a situation like this. He didn’t have the heart to admit that not only was help not on the way, but he didn’t even know where they are.

That’s when he realized.

_Doctor._

This is why John was asked to come. To save his life.

So where was he?

“A doctor’s on the way,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper.

Mr. Trevor was so pale his skin was nearly grey. His lips were nearly blue and his hands trembled. His fingers were completely covered in blood, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize he could be helping. He began applying pressure, resulting in sharp, painful sounding breaths from Mr.  Trevor.

“Someone’s coming to help,” he continued to lie. “Just…hold on.”

The man tried leaning up, as though wanting to tell him a secret. Sherlock held onto him even more tightly to keep him still.

“Tell…”Mr. Trevor stopped, too short of breath to say everything at once. “Tell…Sherlock-“

Sherlock froze again upon hearing his name. Not Victor’s. Not Hailey’s. His own. A bloody hand grasped his arm to get his attention.

“Tell Sherlock I’m sorry.”

Mr. Trevor’s eyes fell shut, and Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He reached a shaky hand up to check his pulse and was relieved to find he was unconscious but still fighting. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what Mr. Trevor could have meant. Sitting here, just looking at his unconscious form was too surreal. His fingers gently tapped Mr. Trevor’s face, mindful of the bruises. When he moved closer he was sickened to see the extent of the bruising. His eyes were blackened, his jaw was blue, and his neck was decorated with red bruising, like he might have been choked. Sherlock checked his wrists to find thick red bruising from being tied up.

A sickening feeling settled in his stomach- not just over everything that happened but everything that _could_ happen. A new panic rose within him as he worried about John and the fact that this was even more evidence there was more than one kidnapper.

He was upset with the fact he couldn’t figure any of this out. He sunk to the ground beside Mr. Trevor, drawing his knees to his chest as he continued to try to stop the bleeding. His own arm was beginning to hurt again, and dizziness kept hitting him in nauseating waves until he closed his eyes.

 

_The summer went by painfully slow. Victor only spoke to him when it involved passing something at the table during a meal or seeing if he would mind watching Hailey. Meanwhile, Sherlock hid away in the local library, pushing the time he returned back to the Trevors’ later and later each day._

_He wanted to explain things to Victor, but every time he worked up the courage Victor gave him this_ look _, this glare that made him feel like nothing. Sherlock longed to be close to him again. He missed that feeling, the feeling of togetherness, the physical ecstasy he felt whenever they were close. The thought that he might have risked that all over a few moments of a drug-induced escape made him feel like he was worth that look._

_Oddly enough, Hailey was the Trevor he was closest to that summer. When she found out he liked science she had endless questions about the universe, questions that apparently Victor had brushed off as “boring” and “lame”. He helped her with the violin, traveled with her to friends’ homes, and even took her out for ice cream a time or two._

_He was beginning to sense that Victor was over being a big brother. There was a huge age gap between Hailey and Victor, much like between he and Mycroft (in fact it was one of those interesting facts that drew them together in the beginning). Victor was clearly ready to move on with his own life, get out of the house, and put his family out of sight and out of mind. Hailey admitted to him one day over ice cream that she missed “the old Victor”._

_“He’s lame now,” she told him. “He’s just so boring. I don’t get why you ever liked him.”_

_He choked on his own food. He didn’t know what shocked him more, the fact that Hailey was able to pick up that they were ever together or the fact she sensed they were having trouble._

_“I’m not stupid, you know,” she proclaimed when she saw his reaction. A proud grin splashed across her face. “I have a boyfriend myself.”_

_He tried his best not to roll his eyes._

_“Really?” He teased._

_“Yes. He’s eleven, and he’s taking me to the movies tomorrow.”_

_This was the first he heard about it, so it definitely had to be the first any of the Trevors heard about it. Something told him there was no way this would actually happen, but he didn’t have the heart to admit that to Hailey._

_“You better be careful. Older men can be complicated. Trust me, I know.”_

_He winked at her, and she grinned._

_“Sorry he’s mad at you,” she offered._

_His heart skipped a beat, and he stopped eating. He had only assumed Victor was mad him, judging from the silent treatment, but this was the first time he actually had to confront the idea out loud._

_“Is he?” Sherlock asked innocently._

_Hailey shrugged and took a huge slurp of the chocolate cream melting on her spoon._

_“I asked him if you two were going to live together when you graduated. He just slammed the door in my face.”_

_Sherlock laughed, feeling a bit relieved. Living together was the least of their worries right now._

_“He’s just being complicated,” he lied._

_“He gets that way.”_

_Victor’s father seemed grateful that at least someone was interested in hanging out with Hailey. It seemed to make Mr. Trevor feel even better about letting Sherlock live with them, and it made Sherlock feel slightly better about lying to him. It was his own secret way of making up for it, but most importantly it was a way to keep busy and entertained through the dreaded wait of returning to school._

_One morning, about five weeks into the holiday, Victor and Sherlock crossed paths in the kitchen. They stopped, staring at each other as they both reached for the fridge at the same time._

_“Go ahead,” Sherlock offered._

_Victor went ahead without argument. Sherlock watched him as he proceeded to take out eggs and jam._

_“I was going to make toast, if you want any,” Sherlock announced._

_Victor stared at him. He looked just as shocked that Sherlock was talking to him as Sherlock was himself. He wasn’t even planning to make toast, but it was an excuse to possibly stay in the same room alone for longer than a few minutes. Then Victor’s eyes dashed away quickly, and he stuffed the food back into the fridge._

_“I’m going out,” Victor replied._

_He tried to get away, but Sherlock reacted too fast. Without thinking he grabbed Victor’s arm, and he wasn’t surprised when he was immediately pushed back._

_“Get off of me!” Victor exclaimed. His face grew red and his eyes were hurt, pained, like he might as well have slapped him._

_“Victor, please-“_

_“I’m not doing this Sherlock. Fuck, I just want some peace and quiet for once. Is that too much to ask?”_

_Sherlock couldn’t help but to laugh._

_“Right, because you haven’t been sitting on your arse all summer doing nothing!”_

_He knew it wasn’t a fair accusation. It wasn’t like he was busy himself. It was enough to send Victor over the edge, and Sherlock was suddenly shoved back against the cabinets. His back hit the edge of the countertop a little too roughly, but his wince didn’t seem to be noticed by Victor._

_“You’re really pissing me off,” Victor said. “Hanging around here, making Hailey like you better than me“_

_He laughed again, and he was lucky Victor didn’t hit him._

_“You’re doing a fine job of that yourself, mate.”_

_They glared at each other, and once again Sherlock was just glad he didn’t have a fist crashing into his face. Instead Victor turned around, deciding storming out would be much more painful._

_And it was._

_“Victor, wait!” He pleaded. “I just want to talk. Please. Just…give me five minutes. That’s all. I just want to talk to you.”_

_God, he had never sounded so pathetic. Victor turned around slowly, gazing at him with empathy. Sherlock swallowed nervously. He didn’t want to admit how turned on he was at the sight of Victor standing there, in jeans that were a bit too tight and a light blue t-shirt that formed a V-shape at the neck. He missed him even more than he realized. Victor shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded._

_“Want to take a walk?” Victor offered quietly._

_A huge weight lifted from his shoulders, and he resisted the urge to sigh in relief. He nodded as well and followed Victor outside._

_The morning was quite beautiful, with a sky that was actual crystal clear for the time being. It was still early, and a soft breeze brought the temperature down enough to make walking in the summer heat comfortable. They took off down the road, clinging closely to the edge as the occasional car passed them._

_It was a good five minutes before Sherlock found the courage to say anything. Somehow he thought starting with the Hailey issue might be a good idea._

_“Hailey misses you,” he admitted. “She only started hanging out with me because she thought you don’t want her.”_

_“Whatever. I don’t really care that much.”_

_He stole a glance to Victor, and he could tell that was a lie._

_“April,” he announced suddenly. Victor stopped to turn and look at him, a confused look on his face. “That’s the last time I did any drugs. April twentieth, while I was preparing for an exam. The work just got so hard so quickly, and I was terrified of failing. I can’t lose school, Victor. I just…I can’t. I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t even eat. I finally talked to some of my classmates, but apparently they had their own way of dealing with the stress. I was afraid that unless I tried it, I might be the only one who didn’t do well.”_

_He stopped to catch his breath, and they stared at each other for a long moment until Victor replied:_

_“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If you were so worried, why didn’t you just talk to me?”_

_“I was embarrassed!” He exclaimed. “I’ve always done well in school! Academics are really the only thing I’ve ever been good at. But then one class, one fucking course, threatened to ruin it all, and I just thought…is it really worth it? I could take the drugs and start feeling better and do well, and then I could just…move on. It was just for the sake of one grade, what does it matter in the end?”_

_Victor took a step toward him. He tensed a bit, but he refused to move. His breathing was uneven, but he forced himself to stay quiet and let Victor have his say._

_“It matters because my father found out,” Victor began quietly. “It matters because you broke a promise. Do you know how fucking terrible I felt when I found out? I worried it was all because of me- because I introduced you to that shit in the first place! And the thought that you’d rather go to fucking drugs than me…it made me feel like shit, Sherlock!”_

_Tears were stinging in his own eyes now, and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest to hold himself steady._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was a coward. A fucking coward, and I swear I regret it. But Victor, I need you. I need you because I’m worried I’ll want to do it again. What if this term’s even harder? What if I shouldn’t even be studying organic chemistry in the first place? What if I’m just not as smart as I thought? What if I’m not cut out for this?”_

_He stopped, breathing in and out painfully. His heart was racing, and he felt a bit ill. It was the first time he ever admitted any of this to anyone. Even himself. He was only realizing just now that this was why he was so desperate to win Victor back. The first year of university made him feel brilliant. For a while he was at the top of his class, and that was without having to put any real effort into the work at all. He thought he could get away with the same methods the second year but he failed, miserably._

_“You’re right,” Victor replied, nodding. “You’re stupid. You’re a fucking idiot, and maybe you shouldn’t be in Uni.” Sherlock felt even sicker; this wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He didn’t need this, it was killing him, and suddenly he regretted ever wanting to talk to Victor again. “Because if you think drugs will make you smarter you must be stupid. That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard of, Sherlock, and I’m sorry you never felt like you could just talk to me. But you’re right, it’s only going to get harder.”_

_Victor took another step closer to him. Sherlock winced at first, but then calmed down when he realized how gently Victor approached him. A hand even rose to his shoulder, gripping him there for comfort. Their eyes met, and Sherlock suddenly found himself breathless. Victor’s face seem to glow in the sun, and the way the wind ripped his hair made his heart skip beats. God he missed this._

_“I’m sorry you didn’t talk to me,” Victor said, even more quietly this time. “I wish you had. I haven’t been angry with you because I don’t have feelings for you anymore. It’s the opposite, Sherlock. When I found out what you did I was so terrified of what could have been that it made me mad at you. What if they got you to try something even harder than cocaine? What if you overdosed? What if you became addicted?  And I just thought that you didn’t get the seriousness of this.”_

_“I do,” Sherlock whispered. He glanced down, embarrassed to have to admit the rest: “I was afraid, the whole time. “Afraid of the people, the drugs. But I kept making myself do it because I didn’t know what else to do.”_

_He was shocked to find hands on his hips and arms then wrapping around his chest. The embrace was so warm and welcoming he wanted to burst into tears right then and there, but he held it together long enough to let Victor’s head rest on his shoulder. Sherlock lowered his chin to Victor’s shoulder and closed his eyes tightly. It was the closest they had been in over a month, and it felt amazing._

_“I hate you for what you did,” Victor whispered. “But I don’t_ hate _you. You’re brilliant. You’re fucking brilliant, and I’m just afraid…we’ve both changed a lot, and I know you’ve been through a lot. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be mad at you.”_

_“You don’t have to be.”_

_“Next time you feel that way just please, please talk to me. Don’t ignore me this time around. Believe it or not, sex is an amazing relaxation method.”_

_Sherlock let out a hoarse laugh, and he was grateful for the comic relief. But in all seriousness, his body was going stiff and his heart was racing out of control. They broke apart, and he couldn’t help but to notice how dilated Victor’s pupils were. Victor held out his hand, and Sherlock accepted it._

_“I’m sorry I got you in trouble with your father,” Sherlock said._

_Victor shrugged._

_“I don’t know if he’ll ever look at me the same,” he admitted. “But I think he’s hated me even more since you and I have been apart. He’ll get over it. There will be other stupid things that I’ll actually do myself.”_

_He offered Sherlock a small smile, but he wasn’t feeling that much better just yet. Victor glanced away, hesitating before admitting:_

_“I still need some time.”_

_Sherlock nodded, agreeing. There was no way they could go from not talking for five weeks to sharing a bed again. It was almost uncomfortable just standing this close, and he could sense Victor felt the same. At the same time the weight on his shoulders seemed gone completely, and he was already feeling less anxious about starting school again._

_“Do you know what you’re taking next term?” Victor asked._

_The question took him by surprise, and it was a full moment before he thought to say:_

_“No. Are you still thinking about studying law?”_

_Victor nodded._

_“I’ve been thinking about it all summer,” he replied. Victor took a deep breath before looking around the vacant street. “Do you want to keep walking?”_

_Sherlock drew in a deep breath. He was still in shock that Victor was willing to talk to him. It felt like they were starting over again, and he knew he could take advantage of being given a second chance. He couldn’t screw up again._

_He nodded, holding onto the hope that maybe things could return to normal._

_He was wrong._

Sherlock stayed still, with his knees to his chest and his injured arm cradled in his other hand for what felt like a half an hour before Mr. Trevor stirred awake again. By now the bleeding slowed at least somewhat. His clothes were now covered with the blood, but the wound looked slightly better. He didn’t have John’s medical knowledge, but he knew enough to not think it was all over yet. Mr. Trevor would need stitches, and quickly. Let alone the extent of his other injuries. He couldn’t imagine the pain he was in as Mr. Trevor groaned, shifting just a bit as though testing his injuries. When his eyes fluttered open and immediately found Sherlock hovering over him, his pupils went wide.

“Oh god,” Mr. Trevor groaned. “You’re here.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the disappointment in Mr. Trevor’s voice. Obviously whatever was going on, he never expected Sherlock to actually become a part of it.

“You’re alive,” Sherlock replied.

He wasn’t sure himself if it were out of comfort or as a challenge.

Instead of replying, Mr. Trevor closed his eyes tightly, as though willing to wish this away. Sherlock reached to the ground beside him and picked up the wallet he found in Mr. Trevor’s pocket.

“James Armitage. New York, New York. Explains the rubbish American accent.”

“It’s not rubbish,” Mr. Trevor-Armitage shot.

“Changed your birthday and everything,” Sherlock continued to fish through the wallet. “A few American dollars but no Euros. No credit cards. A three day old plane ticket…from Brussels, not New York. You’re living under cover.”

Sherlock wanted to study his face and deduce every hint of change, but the dim light and colourful bruising only let him see as far as the scowl and hateful glare.

“You’re just as brilliant as I remember,” James said dryly. He was using his native accent again. “Perhaps a bit cheekier.”

Sherlock smirked, but his eyes fell again to the picture on the I.D. Somehow James Trevor managed to uproot his entire life to America, leaving his kids behind to suffer.

“I went to your funeral,” Sherlock admitted. “Hailey cried the whole time in your sister’s arms. Victor just sat there…he was afraid. He’s raised Hailey ever since. I’d wager he’s been more of a father to her than you ever were.”

James tried to sit up but was immediately stopped by the wound. Grunting in pain, he settled for balancing himself on his elbows.

“That’s not fair!” He shot. His face fell suddenly, and Sherlock stared at him, willing the truth out of him. “I took the bribes, alright? But it wasn’t for the money. Sherlock, when you’re a copper the number one thing that’s always on your mind is your family. You’re worried about getting hurt on the job- getting killed- and not being able to be there for them. You’re worried about people retaliating against you and bringing your loved ones into it, and that’s what happened. I would never commit suicide like that. I love my family, more than anything in the world. But I fell into a terrible trap. I had the dealers, Sherlock, the whole lot of them, but I was in over my head. I was on a stake out one night so that I could gather evidence. They caught me and roughed me up a bit before telling me they could offer me the deal of a lifetime. They promised to leave me and my family alone if I wouldn’t arrest them.

I wouldn’t do it agree. I was too in shock, so they began offering money. I still turned them down. I was planning to go into work and tell them everything that happened, but before I could I noticed money was starting to pour into my bank account. Someone hacked my account, and I knew what was happening. They made the deal anyway. I suppose they thought that money would bring me comfort over knowing my kids were safe. I was uncomfortable with it. I still planned to confess everything, but then I started getting pictures of my kids sent to me at work. Someone was following them. There were even pictures of you and Victor. They were following me, my kids. They had access to my bank account. I had to be very careful about the move I made.”

Sherlock stared at him, his breathing short and uneven. Things were a little clearer now. He’d always known deep down that it didn’t make any sense for Mr. Trevor to take vibes. Victor’s family had money, not only from income but inheritance. The thought of people following he and Victor around with cameras made him feel more than a bit uncomfortable, but he’d never admit this.

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked weakly.

“I didn’t have to do anything. I was turned in for the bribes.”

Their eyes connected, and suddenly Sherlock felt sick inside.

“I don’t know how you figured it out,” James admitted quietly.

“But you knew it was me?”

Instead of replying he cried out in pain. Sherlock’s hand immediately flew to James’ ribcage, where the knife wound was bleeding again.

“Shit,” James whispered.

Sherlock sat aside the thought that it was strange to hear him swear and instead helped to apply pressure again.

“What happened to you?” Sherlock asked. Their eyes met, but James looked too spooked to tell him the story. “The last thing you said before passing out was ‘tell Sherlock I’m sorry’. Not Hailey. Not Victor. Me.”

Gasping with pain, Mr. Trevor lay back against the floor and allowed Sherlock to take over helping him with the wound. He was turning pale again, and Sherlock knew he was losing far too much blood.

“They found me. I was overseas from New York, in Brussels, when I started getting pictures of my kids again. They even sent me a picture of you and that bloke-“

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

The sickening feeling in his stomach grew even sourer with the thought of John being out there, on his own in the hands of these madmen.

“They got to Hailey,” Sherlock said quietly. “Victor came to me for help, and we started getting calls. The kidnapper wanted money, we thought it was just ransom-“

“It’s not,” James rasped. “They want money because they need money, but they don’t want Hailey or Victor. They want me and you. Turning me in resulted in their capture, and they wanted to know who gave the tip to the police. They were threatening Hailey, and I had to…I had to give you up.”

Sherlock swallowed nervously, realizing what he meant.

“They’re out for revenge,” James whispered, face even whiter now. His lips trembled a bit, and Sherlock realized the man’s skin was growing colder. “I agreed to tell them if it meant Hailey was safe.”

“Victor agreed to give them the money if it meant Hailey was safe,” Sherlock whispered. “They wanted John to do it, he’s a doctor.”

“I suppose they didn’t want an agent’s blood on their hands as well. Cowards…they also must have known getting your doctor to come out here would have meant you would join along for a ride.”

“Agent?” Sherlock muttered, but James seemed unconcerned.

“They want other information out of me, Sherlock. When they found me they realized what I do and how much help I could be for them. They took Hailey because they knew I wouldn’t agree to it. They want you because you led to their arrest…and because of your brother.”

His chest turned to knots, and his heart skipped a beat.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock spat. “What does Mycroft have to do with anything?”

He was shocked Mr. Trevor would even remember he had a brother. Mycroft had nothing to do with their living arrangement or his university career. His brother was absent during that entire chapter of his life. Sherlock didn’t have the faintest idea what Mycroft was doing during that time, and he never asked because he was sure he didn’t want to know.

“Everything,” was all James managed before the door to the cellar burst open and light finally poured into the room.

A tall man with muscular arms, clad in ripped jeans and a thin white t-shirt burst into the room. Sherlock scrambled to his feet just in time to see another figure being dragged into the room. His heart tore in two when he recognized the figure as John. A burlap sack was over his head, and when the man ripped it off John’s eyes danced around. They were filled with terror and shock, and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the new black eye tracing the right eye.

John was clearly still having trouble with walking, but Sherlock was relieved to see that he at least managed to move one foot in front of the other as he was pushed inside.

“Someone called for a doctor?” The man spat, a sick grin across his face.

John fell unceremoniously toward Mr. Trevor, and despite his own injuries he immediately found blood from the knife wound and various injuries on his face. A tattered first aid kit was thrown down at his side, and before Sherlock could comprehend what was happening, thick fingers grasped his arm and pulled him away. He tried to call out but his breath was coming in tight, painful rasps. Pain shot through his injured arm as the man used it to drag him out of the room. Once outside, the door to the cellar shut behind him.

Frantic cries of “Sherlock!” haunted him as the bag was thrown over his head and a quick, piercing, pain erupted in his other arm.

 _Drugs,_ he realized again.

And once again, he fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are much, much more explanations to come. I promise this isn't just "bringing a character back to life" for the sake of being shocking or because I didn't know how else to make this interesting. There is SO much more to it than that! Promise! You will still learn all about how Sherlock found out about the bribes and what happened after the funeral.
> 
> Thank you all SO much for your support! It really means a lot to me!
> 
> So...thoughts?


	11. Chapter Eleven

As he stirred from the depths of his sub consciousness it took a minute to figure out what was going. There was darkness, then flashing lights. There was a loud, piercing sound like gunfire that was far too close. A foul odor greeted him; it was like moldy food.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to wake up to this, but one of the lights flashed right into his eyes and he jerked back to consciousness.

A tall, muscular, black man smiled at him and took a step back. A camera was in his hands.

Sherlock realized right away that he was no longer wearing his shirt  . Instead the shirt was tied around his arm as a kind of makeshift cast. His body was too numb to tell if it was helping, but the through drooping eyes he could still see the bones sticking out in odd places. A bag of ice rest between the shirt and the bone, barely held in place, but he couldn’t feel it.

His eyes went wide when the man withdrew a camera phone and pointed it at him.

“Say hi,” the man smirked. “This is for your brother.”

A dry laugh escaped Sherlock. His throat felt so raw that it was like fire, and it hurt to speak.

“If you think Mycroft will be fooled by such amateurish hostage tactics then you clearly know nothing about my brother.”

A palm smacked across his face, leaving his skin stinging and the sickening feeling of bile in his throat.

“Do you know who I am?” The other man demanded. Sherlock shook his head weakly. “Deduce it. I’ve heard you’re good at that.”

Sherlock forced his eyes to stay open long enough to fall on the orange pants and white shirt the man was wearing.

“One of the drug dealers,” Sherlock whispered.

The realization itself made him feel sick. This was one of the men he indirectly helped put in prison.

“Marcus Tyler,” the convict said. “You never even knew who I was. You just acted on some _stupid_ human instinct without thinking about the consequences. Well the consequences are here, and we had nine long years to plan our payback.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He laughed again.

“This is too good,” Sherlock smirked. “Too predictable.”

He didn’t even mind the fist that connected with his lip, splitting the skin there and drawing blood. He was dealing with revenge, simple revenge, and Tyler had no idea how easy that made this for him.

“Your brother worries about you, more than you know,” Tyler shot. “You pay him back with drugs and breaking the law. I have a little brother too, and I looked after him, I gave him everything…until he disappeared.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock breathed heavily as he tried to wrap his mind around this new bit of information.

“The government thought he was a part of something that he wasn’t,” Tyler said. He drew up another chair and sat down across from Sherlock. “He came to me one night, panicking and wanting my help. The next morning he was just…gone. Funny how that always seems to happen, people disappearing during government investigations.”

_Mycroft is everything._

He had this all wrong.

His heart began racing and his chest rose and fell at a sickeningly fast pace. This wasn’t just revenge for the prison sentence. Whatever this investigation was about, whatever happened to Tyler’s brother when he disappeared, that’s why he was here. This wasn’t only about Mycroft, it was _for_ Mycroft.

“If your problem is with me and my brother, then fine. Torture me, blackmail Mycroft, do whatever you want. No one else needs to be a part of it.”

A wicked smile stretched across Tyler’s face that made Sherlock’s blood run cold.

“My _problem_?” Tyler snapped. Sherlock’s head snapped back as he was hit again. Tyler knelt down so that they were faced to face. Sherlock breathed hard, trying to catch his breath as a cold, wet, feeling trickled down his face. He noticed Tyler was wearing a golden ring on his right hand; it must have caught one of the cuts already plastered on his skin from the wreck. “I’m sorry if I’m inconveniencing you. I’m sure I messed up a nice evening of tea and telly. Forgive me if I don’t think that compares to messing up nine years of my life.”

Sherlock braced himself for the next hit, and he was stunned instead to find a knife cutting into the skin beneath his right eye. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the blade as his entire body shook slightly. He swallowed, trying to pull it together, but it was at that moment he realized this wasn’t a game. Tyler wasn’t someone to play around with.

“I’m not an idiot, _Sherlock_ ,” Tyler spat his name like it was venom, and his voice was low, almost a growl, as though someone else might be listening in. “I know your brother is someone who doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted. I know if I’m going to make a serious, legitimate threat against him it needs to be _big_. Do you think shipping home one of your eyes would be enough to scare him?” Sherlock let out a sharp, unwilling, gasp as the knife flew from his face to the skin in between his right thumb and finger. The blade pressed down into his skin roughly enough to draw blood. “What about a finger?”

Sherlock swallowed, managing to hold it together enough to reply:

“I’d like to get out of here with all my body parts, thanks. You’ve already nearly taken out my arm.”

Another punch to the face. His eyes shut tightly when the knife got a little too close to his eyeball for his liking. He couldn’t help but to breathe out a shaky sigh of relief when Tyler stepped back to sit down again. The hit left him breathless and dizzy, and he was certain if he was asked to stand he would be sick. He kept his eyes shut tightly, willing the nausea away.

“I’ve given you and your friends morphine to help with the pain,” Tyler said, cool and causal now. Yet just as he said it, the pain was returning, shooting through him like fire. At the same time he was shivering; the room felt too cold. “I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that I’m not in this alone. We’ve got a bit of time before things really get exciting. I’m going to send you back to your friends. You should talk to them…after all Mr. Armitage probably has a lot of your answers.”

For the first time Sherlock realized his arms weren’t tied down. Tyler must have correctly assumed he was too weak and drugged to try anything. He was roughly forced up by his good arm, and sure enough the vertigo from suddenly standing upright nearly made him vomit.

A doorway led them away from the room- an empty, 50s-era kitchen, he realized- and back down to the cellar. John sat up from his spot next to Mr. Trevor as soon as he was pushed inside. The door slammed behind him; the force of the echo made him jump.

The fact that John wasn’t rushing toward him told him his legs were still bothering him, but John’s eyes still lit up with anxiety as Sherlock stumbled forward. He tried to walk but settled instead for collapsing on the ground. His good hand caught him, but his knees gave out and he lay there, breathless and helpless for a long, embarrassing, moment before anyone said anything.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was shaky and weak.

Sherlock looked up to him, face pale and sweaty, before lifting himself to his knees. His eyes shifted then to Mr. Trevor, who still lay on the floor with his hand pressed against the knife wound. John managed to bandage it up well enough, but blood was already seeping through the dressing and his face was so pale he was nearly ghostly white. 

It didn’t stop Sherlock from leaping forward and straddling him, pining Victor’s father beneath him. His hands closed in around Mr. Trevor’s neck, not tight enough to choke him but enough to scare him.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock demanded. “You’re supposed to be dead so _why are you here_? What have you been doing? What’s it got to do with Mycroft? Why aren’t you dead?”

John was beside him now, desperately trying to separate the two. When Sherlock snapped back to reality and saw how scared and in pain Mr. Trevor was he finally let go. A heavy, uneven, breath escaped him as he forced himself off the man and instead collapsed into a heap on the ground beside him. He drew his knees to his chest and hid his face for a moment, trying to still his shaky breaths and trembling limbs.

“Sherlock?” John asked carefully. “Sherlock, look at me.” He looked up and was surprised to find John was right in front of him. His flatmate was still sitting, with his sticking legs out at awkward, painful angles. He placed a hand carefully on Sherlock’s face, wiping away at some of the blood. His fingers then found the tiny mark from where the knife was press beneath his eye, and Sherlock’s eyes darted away. “Are you alright?”

He tried to answer, but his words were lost in another shaky breath. Once again he buried his head in his hands, ashamed for John to see him like this. A hand reached out to his injured arm, and he quickly jerked away.

“I’m fine!” Sherlock snapped, and John sat back. His own face melted with sympathy, and he let out a sigh. Opening his eyes again he examined John, who possibly looked even worse for wear than he did right after the crash. “How are you feeling?”

John shrugged.

“Like shit, I guess,” John admitted. “I woke up to that man having trouble moving me down the stairs. He tried to get me to walk, and I couldn’t so he just hit me. My legs are still pretty weak, but when he forced me upright I could at least feel them…and I can wiggle my toes. That’s progress.”

He offered Sherlock a small, hopeful, smile.

“Can I look at your arm?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head. He knew if John moved it the arm would start hurting again. He was trying to soak in the last of the morphine before pain completely took over. “Please, Sherlock?”

At the quiet, desperate, plea Sherlock finally sighed and shook his head ‘yes’. John carefully unwrapped the makeshift sling and removed the melting bag of ice. Sherlock let out a gasp of pain the first time John touched his wrist. He shut his eyes tightly as John’s fingers gently ran across the black and blue skin.

“It’s definitely broken,” John whispered. Somehow the confirmation made the pain even worse. “Have you broken your arm before? I can see the scars…”

He lifted his eyes to meet John, and his flatmate fell silent. He had broken his arm before, or rather his father had, when he knocked him backwards once a little toohard. Sherlock could feel Mr. Trevor’s eyes on him, deducing the story.

Luckily, John seemed to forget he asked.

“It probably is good to use the makeshift sling,” John said. “Are you cold?”

Sherlock shook his head. He wasn’t cold or self-conscious about not having a shirt on- though he had to admit he wasn’t just shuddering at the pain as John’s fingers ghosted across his skin.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said quietly. His eyes flashed to Mr. Trevor. “I just want to know what _he’s_ doing here. He knows what’s going on. He knows what Mycroft has to do with this.”

“Mycroft?” John asked, clueless.

“Haven’t you been listening?”

John sighed and sat back. Sherlock waved an arm toward Mr. Trevor, too breathless and drained to tell the story himself. Mr. Trevor let out a long sigh and let his head fall back against the ground, closing his eyes as he admitted:

“During that second summer you and Victor were together, Mycroft and I happened to be investigating the same family. The Tylers. I wanted the older one for drug trafficking, and Mycroft was investigating the younger one.”

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked.

Mr. Trevor’s eyes flashed toward him.

“Do you really think I can tell you that? Besides, they could be listening in…to keep this simple, I offered him what knowledge I knew, and he agreed to protect me. He did his homework on me and found out I was helping you, Sherlock, and he was very generous after that.”

Sherlock’s eyes hardened, and his heart nearly slowed to a stop as he realized what Mr. Trevor meant. Mycroft knew what was going on. He knew his father hurt him so badly that he ran away to live with another family- and he just let it happen. He let him suffer, thinking he had no one else.

“Sherlock-“ John warned carefully.

He must have sensed the decade’s worth of anger rushing through him. But he didn’t say anything. He would leave that for later, once Mycroft found them.

“Of course by then it was too late,” Mr. Trevor continued quietly. “You already discovered what was going on. I was turned in for the bribes and Marcus Tyler went to prison.”

“I know that part,” Sherlock said, dry and ragged as he tried to control his breathing. “What happened after? We got a call while at the train station…we were told you…Victor collapsed in my arms, right there in the middle of everything.”

He swallowed, determined to keep it together, but the memory was playing over and over in his head so vividly that it was painful. Victor’s cries, his pleas, still floated back to him. He could practically feel the weight of him in his arms.

Mr. Trevor couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“Like I told you, I would never kill myself. I loved my family too much. I _love_ them. But it was too dangerous for me to stay home. I found out a lot about that drug ring, more than I ever admitted to the police. I knew their plans, and I knew it went way beyond Tyler. Mycroft came to me again and offered me an out. He offered me undercover work, working for him.”

“You worked for my brother.”

It was a statement, not a question. The statement tasted sour on his tongue, and a sickening not tore his stomach in two. This was becoming all too much. He wished Mycroft were here, to tell him the whole story because he knew Mr. Trevor couldn’t. Hell, he wished Mycroft were here to rescue him.

And he wished Mycroft were here so he could punch his face in.

“I hated it,” Mr. Trevor admitted. “But I did it so I could stay alive. I did it so my kids could stay safe.”

“Mycroft helped you,” Sherlock whispered.

His face was white. He was aware John was staring at him, failing to deduce what was going through his mind.

He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or furious that Mycroft kept Mr. Trevor alive. He was furious that this was kept from him, that Mycroft played dumb this whole time. Even when he admitted everything about his father just the day before…Mycroft still acted so surprised.

He felt like he was going to be sick again.

“You’re brother’s an arse, I’ll say that,” Mr. Trevor said, with a hollow laugh. “I’ve had more than my fair share of arguments with him. But I know it’s what kept Hailey and Victor alive.”

“And what kept me alive?” Sherlock demanded. “Because I knew more than Hailey and Victor ever did. I knew more than anyone-“

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

He was too busy panicking to listen to John. His heart was racing away in his chest, and he was truly becoming concerned about vomiting all over the floor. The entire situation was too much to wrap his head around, and what was worse was that he was beginning to understand some of the things he never thought about.

Maybe _this_ is why Mycroft was always so protective of him- only after rehab, of course. Maybe _this_ is why his brother always walked around, looking over their shoulder like there was always an extra shadow trailing behind them.

“Why do you think you’re here?” Mr. Trevor whispered. Suddenly Sherlock’s arm erupted into pain, and he grasped it tightly with his good wrist. “There are two of them that I’ve seen. One of them is out for revenge. He’s not a Tyler, his name’s Clint Moore. He’s the one that gave me the knife wound. I tried negotiating with him, about Hailey, and I…I still don’t know if she’s safe.”

The room became uncomfortably silent as Mr. Trevor choked on his own words. His eyes were closed over quiet streams of tears, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to ache for him.

“The other…” Mr. Trevor had to take a deep breath to finish: “The other, Tyler, the one you met. He mainly wants you. He wants _Mycroft_. He wants his brother, and he thinks this is how he’s going to get him.”

“What happened to his brother?” Sherlock whispered.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Trevor replied. “I don’t know…that’s all Mycroft.”

Mr. Trevor’s head fell back against the ground as he let out a few choked sobs. It was difficult, sitting there and watching a man he once respected so much openly cry over his family. John swallowed nervously across from him, and glanced over to him as though asking him what to do.

But Sherlock couldn’t answer.

He was still trying to wrap his mind around everything.

“You should get some rest,” John said to Mr. Trevor. His eyes shifted back to Sherlock, and he offered him a sad, sympathetic smile. “You too Sherlock, I mean it.”

Sherlock gently lowered his back to the ground and placed his good hand behind his head. It wasn’t by any means comfortable, but he was shocked to realize how tired he was even after being unconscious for so long. He knew whatever dreams he would have wouldn’t be pleasant. His mind was a rollercoaster: a mixture between past in present. He could only think of Victor, falling into his arms at the train station. Victor, beating him to the ground at the funeral. Victor, yelling at him about taking the drugs…

He closed his eyes tightly, determined not to shed any tears of his own.

Instead he coaxed himself to sleep, if not for the sheer purpose of shielding himself against reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO, SO much for all the nice comments!!!!!!! It really means the world to me, seriously!!
> 
> I know some of you are worried about the Sherlock/John tag. I promise you it's there for a reason!
> 
> If you're a big Sherlock/John fan you may be interested in my newest story "Not Just Biology". It's a cross between the 30 Day OTP Challenge and 30 Day Porn Challenge.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The night progressed slowly, without any more appearances from either of their kidnappers. Sherlock settled into a spot far away from Mr. Trevor and kept his eyes to the floor. Mr. Trevor was either sleeping or pretending to sleep. John kept checking and re-checking the stitching on the knife wound until he scooted over to the wall besides Sherlock.

“Hey,” John announced quietly.

Sherlock looked up at him, noticing how painful shifting his weight seemed to be for John.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded, but he looked pale and weak.

“Whatever the drug was is wearing off,” he admitted. “I think it was morphine.”

Sherlock didn’t admit that he knew it was.

“It’s just…a bit hard to stand and walk,” John sighed. “What about you?”

“Fine,” Sherlock lied.

He could also sense the morphine wearing off. Sharp pains pierced at different parts of his arm at random. He held it close but forced himself to keep it together so that he wouldn’t scare John.

“Are you doing okay?” John asked. “Besides the pain, I mean.”

Their eyes met, and his breath hitched when he realized John was studying every bruise, every drop of blood.

“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. He tried to keep his voice down, but the helplessness still echoed around the dark, damp, cellar. “He was…” _dead_. He just couldn’t get past it. “I just…and Mycroft knew-“

He couldn’t make sense of any of it. His mind kept jumping from the fact that Mycroft knew what he through to James Trevor being alive. He hated sounding so lost, so desperate, but he secretly hoped John would somehow know what to say.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it sounds like Mycroft was helping,” John said. Sherlock glared, and John threw his hands up in defense. “Victor’s dad was in trouble. Yeah he screwed up- badly- but it sounds like Mycroft gave him a good deal. At least it kept him alive, out of jail, and kept Victor and his sister safe.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. He tilted his head back against the grimy wall and closed his eyes. He shuddered a bit as a sudden cold spell hit him, and he swore he felt John scoot closer to him.

“You’re hurting, Sherlock, and not just physically,” John continued softly. “You’ve got to realize that’s okay.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted. “But that was my life, John. Victor, his family…I thought that was going to be my life. It was the only time I’ve ever felt…happy.”

He winced at how uncomfortable the word sounded on his tongue, and he felt even worse when he saw John’s face fell. His chest turned to knots when he realized how crushed John was.

“I had a father who…who abused me. My mother was gone. My brother was…he didn’t care. He never cared. Christ, he’s never sent so much as a birthday card. If he knew I was staying with the Trevor’s then he must have known about my father and he just…he let it happen.”

He was getting too choked up, and he wanted it to stop but it was like once he started he just wanted it all out. He wanted John to know.

“Do you have any idea what that was like?” He whispered. He looked to John, who looked stunned. No, Sherlock realized. He didn’t know. He came from a decent family, who didn’t hurt him. He couldn’t know. “My own father hurt me, and Mycroft just…never cared. He let me stay with someone else’s family. He practically gave them the responsibility of taking care of me. And he knew…and I’m not even sure if that’s the worst part.”

Suddenly a cold hand was on his back, and he shivered again. He nearly stopped breathing when he realized John’s fingers were tracing an old scar. He closed his eyes as the memory returned to him, clear and vivid-

“God, he really hurt you,” John breathed.

“He used to show up at my doorstep with black eyes and a swollen lip.” They both looked up, surprised to hear Mr. Trevor’s voice. He remained lying on the ground with his eyes fluttering, like he was trying to stay conscious. “Please Sherlock…I know you never really dealt with this.”

 _Because no one was ever there for me,_ he wanted to say, but instead he closed his eyes and tilted his head back again.

“Maybe we should start thinking of how we’re going to get through this,” John spoke up. “These men are relentless, but clearly they want Mycroft. That means he’ll have to get involved, which is good, right?”

It was as though John curiosity summoned the man upstairs. The door burst open at that moment, and this time two men thundered down the steps. One was the same man they saw before. The other was an older white man. He was bald, with a thick tattoo of a snake that stretched from the back of his neck to his shoulders. He wore trousers that were far too big for him and his white t-shirt was too small. He walked funny, like he wasn’t used to the shoes he was wearing.

That’s when Sherlock noticed the man rubbing red marks on his wrist, and he realized what this meant: he was an escaped convict.

A prison break.

That’s what was going on.

The man from before- Tyler- held the same mobile in hand. James sat up when he realized Tyler was coming for him, and the phone was forced into his hand. Meanwhile the other man was headed for him and John.

“You, with me,” he demanded.

John turned to him at panic, and Sherlock’s heart raced as he debated what to do.

“He’s hurt!” Sherlock warned as John was forced to his feet.

John winced and stumbled a bit, but he bit lip, forcing himself not to cry out. Sherlock’s eyes flashed over the convict, trying to figure out what was going on. The convict was perspiring, more than normal. He favored the right side of his body over his left, and now that he saw the bruises on his wrist up close it was clear whatever handcuffs he was in caused brutal damage to the skin.

His flatmate threw a glance toward him as he was forced up the stairs, as though warning him not to fight it. Sherlock realized he was breathing hard, and he was on his feet although he didn’t remember standing.

It felt like something else was controlling his body as he turned to James Trevor, sitting up on the concrete floor, looking helpless and beaten as he stared at the mobile in his hands.

“Talk,” Tyler ordered.

James swallowed, obviously not sure what to think, but he didn’t get his chance to say anything.

“Dad?”

Hailey’s quiet voice trembled from the mobile, and the room went completely silent. James eyes went wide and he looked at Sherlock. His hands shook as he gripped the mobile.

It was too surreal to hear Hailey’s voice, after all these years. Even though he knew she was a teenager now- an adult- she sounded exactly like she did when he last heard her.

James closed his eyes tightly, as though testing rather or not this was all a dream.

“Hailey?” He whispered finally. “Are you alright?”

Tears were already beginning to seep through Mr. Trevor’s eyes, and Sherlock felt his own chest tighten.

“You’re alive,” Hailey whispered. “I didn’t believe it when they told me.”

“You’re alright,” James whispered again. Tears were openly flowing now, and he had to rest his head in hands for a moment to pull it together long enough to continue: “I love you. I promise, I…never meant to get you hurt.”

The mobile was ripped from his hands before he had another chance to say anything. James let out a single sob and hid his face in his hands.

Sherlock nearly stopped breathing when Tyler turned to him next. He forced himself to remain perfectly calm as he reached out and accepted the mobile. He immediately turned the phone off speaker, which earned him a sharp glare from Tyler, but he didn’t care.

For a moment, only his shallow breathing filled the room until he heard:

“Sherlock?”

He closed his eyes. Mycroft. He was possibly the last person he wanted to talk to right now, and it was only the thought of possibly getting John to safety that made him reply.

“I’m here.”

He could have sworn he heard his brother let out a small sigh of relief, but he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“Listen to me carefully, Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. “Do whatever they say. Listen to them. This isn’t about you. There’s no reason to make a scene.”

Sherlock gripped the mobile in his hand tightly, and it was all he could do to not throw it across the room.

_Make a scene?!_

“Funny, because this seems very much about me,” he shot. “They took my flatmate. My flatmate, Mycroft!”

Mycroft paused, as though he wanted to comment, and Sherlock knew what he was thinking. John was way more than a flatmate.

But Tyler didn’t have to know that.

His brother took a deep breath before pleading with him:

“Sherlock-“

“I don’t care,” he snapped, softly. “Get us out of here. Get John out of here. I don’t care about the rest.”

He hung up the phone and threw it at Tyler. A twist grin crept across Tyler’s face as he caught it, like the bickering amused him.

A fist flew across his face, but Sherlock couldn’t bother to be surprised. His own hand flew to his nose as blood began to pour out of it, but he simply turned around and placed his palm against the wall to steady himself.

It was just too typical of Mycroft to say something like that. For him to think he would ever make light of a situation like this…

“With me,” Tyler announced.

Sherlock looked up. An odd mix of relief, anger, and fear rushed through him when he realized Tyler was speaking to James. He forced James to his feet; Mr. Trevor nearly fell forward but Tyler held onto him tightly as he led him to the door.

The door slammed closed behind him, and Sherlock finally let out a long sigh. His nose was still bleeding as he sank down to the floor and let his head lean back against the wall.

His eyes flashed around the room as he breathed in deeply, desperate to stay calm, and that’s when it him.

He was alone.

And he was surprised to realize that scared him almost as much as worrying about what was happening on the other side of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry that I have been neglecting this story! I feel like this story started out so strong, and I've just left it hanging! The truth is I've spent the past few weeks desperately searching for a new job. Literally every free moment I had was dedicated to job searching and, well, I found one! And I quit my other job so...free time! Until my new assignment starts. But I really don't think it will be anywhere near as stressful...honestly lately I've been coming home so stressed out and angry that I don't even feel like writing- and that's not me AT ALL! Writing has always been my escape, so when even that's affected, I know it's time to get out! So if you're willing to stick with me, I can promise things will get better! Thank you so much for all the support!!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait is FINALLY over...both for a new chapter and for those who have been waiting for Johnlock!

_It was a quiet weekend at the Trevor house as he and Victor rekindled their relationship. One Friday night around midnight he managed to break away from Victor long enough to slip downstairs for some water. His hair was a mess, he was still breathing hard, and his skin reeked of Victor and was dotted red fingerprints._

_“So, you two are back together.”_

_Sherlock froze. He gripped the glass he held a little too tightly as he stared straight ahead. Fighting to steady his breathing, he forced himself to turn around and face the smug, amused figure of Mr. Trevor sitting at the kitchen table._

_“We thought you were working a double shift,” Sherlock admitted._

_He ran a hand through his hair and was horrified to find how sweaty and disheveled it was._

_Mr. Trevor offered a sympathetic smile._

_“The case got solved. Sit,” he said, pointing at the table. “Have some tea if you want. We haven’t talked in a while.”_

_It was true. Since getting back together with Victor, Sherlock slowly exiled himself from the rest of the Trevor family._

_“When did you get back together?” Mr. Trevor asked._

_Sherlock couldn’t help but to notice the man’s hands trembled as he sipped at his tea. His eyes were tired and his arms covered by sleeves of his coat, though it was warm inside the house._

_“Last week,” he admitted._

_“I’m glad,” Mr. Trevor said. Sherlock was pleased to realize he seemed sincere. “Really, I am.”_

_He rubbed at his brow, as though on the verge of becoming emotional._

_“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked quietly._

_“Yeah,” Mr. Trevor said. He didn’t sound too sure of himself. “It was just a really tough case. We’re a bit short staffed. It about killed me to close that case.”_

_A sad smile crossed Mr. Trevor’s face._

_“Yeah. It was a joint effort with the homicide department. Murder at a drugs house…messy stuff. Tomorrow I have a days’ worth of paperwork to do.”_

_“Sounds thrilling.”_

_Mr. Trevor laughed._

_“You should come around one day,” he offered. “I think you would like it. There’s so much attention to detail involved. You question everything…with the kind of studying you do it seems right up your alley.”_

_Sherlock perked up at the offer. His heart raced a bit with excitement. Despite the amount of work he did in school he didn’t have any kind of experience in the real-world…not so much a look around an office._

_At the same time, the thought of wondering around a place devoted to tracking down people who did drugs made him sick to his stomach._

_But Mr. Trevor was grinning, and seeing him so pleased made him want to agree._

_“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile. “Yeah…that would be amazing.”_

_Mr. Trevor’s grin widened, and he slammed his hands on the table._

_“Brilliant!” He exclaimed. “I’ll ask around at work, see what we can do. And with that…I think I’m going to attempt to get some sleep. You two have a good night.”_

_He winked, and Sherlock nearly melted from embarrassment._

_“Yeah, you to,” he mumbled._

_He let his head fall to his hands as Mr. Trevor walked away. After a moment of deep breathing he gathered himself together enough to walk upstairs._

Of all things, he wished he knew what the time was. He could only keep time himself for so long before he started to drive himself crazy. His head was pounding, and his hands still shook if he tempted to move them. The pain creeping through him didn’t even touch the dry mouth, cracked lips, and his throat burning for water.

From his calculations it had been at least one hour, twenty minutes, and thirty-nine seconds before he had last seen anyone. Being alone in the dark, silent, room was beginning to make him feel claustrophobic.

 _That’s new,_ he thought to himself.

Sherlock’s eyes were just falling close again when the door opened. He jumped us as John nearly tumbled down the stairs. Rushing forward, Sherlock caught John before he collapsed on the ground. He lifted him carefully, and through the small amount of light seeping through the crack beneath the door he could see that John was on the verge of tears. He was shaking and his hand trembled as he clung to what appeared to be a couple of bottles of water and a pack of ice.

“Here,” John whispered, thrusting the items at Sherlock.

He took them without question, letting his eyes roam John for the answers as they walked together back to the wall. John sank to the floor, immediately hiding his face in his hands. Sherlock awkwardly hovered over him, taking in the blood stained on John’s shirt and his arms.

“Are you alright?” He finally asked.

John nodded, but even as he did he looked like he might burst.

“I’m fine…” he said. He sounded so unlike himself, so high-pitched and frightened, that it scared him. “I’m just really exhausted.”

“Are you hurt?”

He hated to ask, and he held his breath as a long pause settled between them.

“No,” John finally said. “No, not besides the fact that I can still hardly walk, I can’t stand straight, and my head…”

John trailed off, as though realizing it was useless to complain.

“Look at me,” Sherlock instructed, lifting a hand to John’s chin. John simply breathed in sharply until Sherlock forced him to look upward and meet his eyes. They were rimmed red from the effort of refusing to cry. He did look exhausted and emotionally beaten. “It’s alright. What happened?”

“I’m not hurt,” John said, voice shaking. “There’s a third…a third convict. Someone who escaped prison with the other one. He was shot during the escape. The bullet got lodged into his side and…he’s in bad shape. They can’t take him to the hospital so they want me…they wanted me to save him.”

Their eyes met, and a single tear finally trickled down John’s cheek. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and brush it away. Instead, John ran his hands over his face, as though desperately trying to rid of any evidence of that night.

“He died,” Sherlock whispered.

“No,” John was hardly audible by now. “No, he’s still alive…I got the bullet out, but he’s in very bad shape. I don’t think he’s going to make it, and I don’t know what they’ll do if he doesn’t.”

“But that isn’t your fault,” Sherlock said, his voice rising with panic. “This isn’t right.”

“I know.”

John simply leaned his head back against the wall in defeat and closed his eyes. Sherlock wanted to shake him, wanted to force him to stay strong and help them both through this. But he knew they were past that.

“This is serious, Sherlock,” John sighed. “This isn’t a game. It isn’t even mind games. This is about as serious as it gets. These people…they want something.”

“They’re blackmailing Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “They want something from him.”

“For all we know Mycroft is out there now, trying to do whatever they’re asking,” John pointed out. “All we have to do is stay calm.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured. His eyes ran over John once more, taking in his battered face, tired eyes, and legs- still sprawled out at an awkward angle. “Stay calm. Your hands are still shaking.”

John winced as he forced his hands into fists to keep them calm. Against his better judgment, Sherlock reached out and cupped his hands over the fists. John’s eyes flew open and his breathing hastened, but he didn’t fight it.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said again. “None of this…none of it is your fault.”

“I know,” John admitted. “I just…want it to be over.”

Sherlock’s hand suddenly found his shoulder, and he was shocked to see John relax into the touch.

Something came over him then. It was the sense of _now or never_. It was adrenaline and insanity, rushing through his veins. His own breathing was harsh and a bit too loud as he carefully leaned forward. John squirmed beneath his touch, and he realized he must be crushing his shoulder. He loosened his grip and John drew in a sharp breath.

The fact that John wasn’t pulling away only boosted his confidence as he closed in the space between him. They were both trembling: nervous and frightened and excited all at the same time. He knew what they were both thinking- at least what _he_ was thinking.

This was it. After this, after this first kiss, there would be no turning back. If they kissed and John panicked and drew away, he might risk losing their friendship forever. But if they kissed and John kept clinging to him, hands grasping his back and breath warm, intoxicating…

It could really be the start of something.

Their lips finally met, and at first they just rested together awkwardly, getting used to the touch of another man. The thought hit him then that he could possibly be the first man John ever kissed. Judging by the sudden skipping of John’s heartbeat and the way his fingers grappled at Sherlock’s back and sides, as though desperate for support, this was an excellent presumption.

But it was met with the realization that he would need to lead, something he was certainly not used to. Drawing in a shaky breath, he finally moved his lips carefully, tugging at John’s bottom lip and capturing him in a smoother kiss.

John whimpered as Sherlock’s tongue danced across his lips, asking for permission to enter. A shaky gasp escaped John, and Sherlock’s tongue dove in and immediately took to exploring his mouth. Both their lips were cracked and dry from dehydration, but the warmth of John’s mouth took him away from that. The anxiety and fear of captivity melted away, and he was grateful to be able to focus on the feeling of the roof of John’s mouth on his tongue, the scrape of tongue against teeth, and the knowledge that John was thinking the exact same thing about _him_. It was an overload of senses, but everything seemed to melt together in perfect form that, for once, kept him calm.

Then John pulled away and they were both gasping, panting, and wild eyes looked up to meet him.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurted out.

Surely that’s what John was looking for.

“I-“ John whispered. His eyes danced around the dark room. Sherlock couldn’t be sure if he were looking for answers or an escape. “I…I had no idea.”

For a long moment the only sounds that filled the room were their uneven breaths. Sherlock’s skin tingled all over as he felt on edge as a result of all the emotion, all the adrenaline and tension. He was aware of the arousal bursting inside him, but John looked too stunned and afraid to make him act on it.

“I…” Sherlock realized he had no idea how to explain it. He never thought he would actually have a reason to. So instead he simply whispered: “You’re very important to me.”

John nodded but didn’t reply. He reached for the bag of ice and took Sherlock’s injured arm in hand. Sherlock shuddered at the touch. A fingertip ran against his bruised and swollen wrist, and he allowed himself to close his eyes and welcome the touch.

“I talked them into giving me this,” John explained.

Sherlock didn’t argue as John shrugged off the makeshift cast and gently placed the ice on his wrist.

“Is that okay?” John whispered.

He nodded.

“Make sure you’re careful with it,” John said. He stole a glance up to Sherlock, who just stared.

The tension between them was so obvious and uncomfortable that he felt the need to do something about it. After all, he was the one who just through a wrench into their friendship. He reached up, caressing the side of John’s face with his hand and offering him a small smile. John returned the smile, and Sherlock immediately let his hand fall.

“Sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” Sherlock whispered.

“I just…” John closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall once again. He could just see how swollen his lips were from snogging, and _god_ the arousal was getting worse. “I just didn’t know you felt that way.”

“We can just forget-“

“Sherlock.”

Their eyes met, and he held his breath. At last John smiled and offered:

“You’re important to me too.”

Sherlock smiled and looked away. John avoided him as well; it was like they were mutually both not sure where to go from here.

“Are you cold?” John asked suddenly.

Looking down, Sherlock was horrified to remember he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. John was staring at him, wide-eyed and cheeks a bit red as he realized this as well.

“I’m fine,” he breathed. “Did you…did you see Mr. Trevor- James- at all?”

John shook his head.

“No,” he replied.

A lump formed in his throat as a thousand horrible ideas danced through his mind.

“Don’t worry about it,” John whispered.

His hand brushed over Sherlock’s bare shoulders, and his own body nearly burst with arousal and desperate _want_.

But he knew now was neither the time nor the place.

“Let’s just get some more rest, alright?” John said.

Sherlock nodded. Their heads rest back against the wall, and Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall close as soon as he saw that John was relaxed. John’s body shifted next to him, and he gasped a bit at the sudden warmth. John said nothing and did nothing, and Sherlock knew it was best to not push this any further.

Beside him, John fell asleep, but Sherlock stayed awake, in shock of what just happened between them.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

A sharp pain in his arm sent him spiraling out of unconsciousness. He didn’t even remember falling asleep, but at some point he woke up on a hard floor. Eyes fluttering open, his breathing turned uneven when he realized he was in the same room he was taken to before. Cameras were flashing again, and a swift kick to his ribs had him fully awake.

Someone was speaking to him, but he was so confused by _how did I get here_ that he couldn’t understand what was being said.

Another kick straight went to his ribs, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. His vision was a bit blurry so all he could make out was the outline of the room he was in and two huge forms, moving toward him-

But then everything changed. There was more shouting, but these were new voices. The sound of feet storming through the room had his heart racing, and he tried to move around to see what was going on but his body felt too heavy. He tried to call out, but he realized he was gagged.

“Sherlock.” Someone was calling his name, gently this time. They were trying to get his attention, but the dance of his eyes around the room only made him dizzy. “Sherlock!”

A hand was on his face and fingers suddenly ripped off the gag, letting him suck in deep, desperate breaths. He tried to focus in on who was in front of him, but between the shouting and the rapid movement around him it was all too much. Whatever it was that was bringing him down began taking over him again, and he submitted to it, falling back into unconsciousness as the person continued to call out for him.

When Sherlock woke again powerful, loud, beeping noises rang in his ears. It was almost painful, and he immediately wished he could just sleep again. He didn’t want to open his eyes because he knew immediately where he was: hospital.

“Can you open your eyes?”

It was a soft, gentle female voice, and he wanted nothing more to ignore it.

“Can you open your eyes for me, love?” The woman said again.

Sherlock forced his eyes open, if not just to glare at the woman hovering above him. A nurse. Of course. She was young, probably just out of training, and she wore a fake sympathetic smile.

“Welcome back.”

He already hated her.

He was at least relieved to find he could see much better now. In fact, he felt relatively no pain at all. Painkillers, he thought. The hospital room was small, bright, and most importantly, private.

And Mycroft was there.

A small sink and counter space was built into the wall across from them, next to a doorway into a washroom, and his brother leaned against it, observing everything that was going on. As always he was perfectly dressed, like it took no effort to be there, but the funny thing was that he had this feeling that Mycroft had been with him all along.

That voice, calling out to him…

He frowned as the nurse began checking his vitals.

“Your heart rate is still up,” she said. The look of concern on her face as she studied the machines only made him more anxious. He had never had problems with his heart- ever. “Can you feel it?”

He could, but he didn’t reply.

It was only then that he noticed his arm was in a cast- a real cast. A hospital gown covered him up but was open in the front enough to reveal a series of wires tapped to his chest and dark bruises that stuck out against his ribs.

“Stay very still, alright?” The nurse said. Her nametag read “Andrews”.

He thought then that the nurse sounded so pleasant not because she felt it necessary to be fake but because he must have genuinely seemed in shock. He stayed still and silent as she pressed a cool stethoscope to his chest, which suddenly felt a little too tight. He obeyed as she instructed him to either breathe or hold his breath; he had to look away to keep himself from dissecting the look of concern on her face. She grabbed his good wrist gently and listened there as well.

When she was done she stepped back, crossing her arms as she studied him. She mimicked Mycroft’s pose, making him feel out of place and uncomfortable.

“Your body’s still in a bit of shock,” she explained. “We’ve been treating you for dehydration. Your ribs are bruised and your arm broken.”

 _Broken?_ But John said he should be okay.

“You seem a bit confused, how’s your memory?” She asked.

He _was_ confused. He went from car crash victim to hostage, being kept in what was essentially a dark dungeon until he was taken out and beaten. His mind couldn’t comprehend it. He couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was safe now and that he should trust this woman.

For the first time, Sherlock understood why Lestrade was so concerned about taking care of his team after a rough case. _Shock._ His entire body felt broken and his mind numb, as though it wasn’t quite ready to face the rest of the world just yet.

“I…” his mouth was so dry that he stopped to swallow, feeling helpless.

“Here,” she said, handing him a cup of ice. “It will take some time to adjust. All we need you to do is take it easy and breathe. In and out, alright? Deep breaths.”

Nodding, he obeyed her and immediately found relief as he breathed in sharply. _In. Out._

Nurse Andrews offered him another kind smile.

“I’ll give you some peace and quiet,” she offered. “Maybe you’ll feel more comfortable talking to your brother.”

God did she have no idea how wrong she was.

Mycroft’s eyes instantly dashed away as she passed him and left the room. At last Sherlock looked up to him. From the tightness in his chest and the frantic beeping behind him his heart rate shot up again. Wide, wet, and desperate eyes gazed up at his brother.

“John,” he rasped.

“He’s fine,” Mycroft replied. His voice was low, as though to hide the fact that he as on edge himself. “He’s coming out of surgery.”

“Surgery?”

Riddled with anxiety, Sherlock let his head collapse back into the pillows. His eyes trailed to the ceiling as he tried to comprehend what Mycroft was saying.

He could remember so little of John being a part of the situation. The only memories that graced his mind were of the car crashing and John screaming…camera lights flashing and pain rushing through him…and John’s face, right in front of his and his lips, suddenly on his.

Licking his lips, he let the memory return. He relished in the memory of John’s lips on his and his tongue in his mouth.

 _That,_ he remembered clearly.

“John is badly hurt,” there was a concern in Mycroft’s voice that made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. It was like his brother was realizing just how bad off he really was. “The crash damaged his spine, but not fatally so. And not permanently. We reached him just in time to bring him into surgery. He’ll be fine, with some physical therapy.”

“He’ll be able to walk?”

Mycroft nodded, and relief flooded through him. Guilt pricked at his mind, making him think that perhaps he hadn’t taken John’s injuries seriously enough. Of course John would make it seem like the injuries weren’t that big of a deal- he wouldn’t have wanted Sherlock to panic. But John was a doctor…he must have known all along what happened to him.

“Can I see him?”

His voice was hardly a whisper, and he felt sick with desperation, but Mycroft still shook his head.

“He needs to rest and recover,” Mycroft explained. “As do you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as his head suddenly exploded with pain. All the new information was just too much. The contrast from the dark cellar to the bright hospital room was too much.

Worst of all, being this far from John was tearing him apart.

That’s when he finally remembered the strangest part of the kidnapping: James Trevor was alive.

His eyes flew open.

“Mr.-“

“Don’t!” Mycroft snapped. Sherlock’s mouth immediately fell closed. Mycroft strode over so that he was standing just next to Sherlock with his hands rested on the rails of the bed. “Sherlock…it is of the upmost importance that his identity be kept secret.”

“But-“

“I will explain everything to you, in time-“

“I deserve to know!” Sherlock exclaimed. Although he finally found his voice, his eyes were tearing up from the effort of shouting. “Don’t you get that? I deserve to know.”

Mycroft looked down, and it was one of the few times that he could remember his brother looking so ashamed.

“I wish I could tell you,” Mycroft whispered. “But you must keep this secret. Do not talk about it with anyone-“

“Victor,” he realized suddenly. “Does he know what happened?”

“He knows you are in the hospital, but he cannot know about his father.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he glared at his brother. If his body wasn’t so numb and lifeless he would have lashed out at him.

“How did you react when you found out he was alive?” Mycroft asked calmly. Sherlock didn’t reply. He could see where Mycroft was going with this- he was so in shock, so upset and angry himself that he couldn’t imagine what Victor would say. “I’ve asked his sister to keep this quiet for now. In due time, we will find a way, but for now it is too dangerous for anyone to discuss it.”

“But Mycroft-“

Mycroft held up a hand.

“Please,” Mycroft pleaded. “For the safety of you and John, and for the Trevor family…drop it, Sherlock. Please. Let me handle this.”

At the words “safety” and “John” he stopped protesting, but there was still something else he wanted to know.

“How did you find us?”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped up to meet his. His older brother studied him, as though decided rather or not he was ready to know.

“Your kidnappers wanted something from me,” he explained. “I asked them to send…to send him to do it.”

“You didn’t want me to go?”

“Would you have left John?”

His eyes sunk down to his hands, and he could only hope Mycroft couldn’t see the desperate emotion swirling in them. Somehow he felt like Mycroft knew about his feelings for John, but even he would never be so low as to tease him about it.

“What did they want?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know.

“As I said, I will explain everything to you,” Mycroft promised. “Your nurse is right, you should be resting. How is the pain?”

Closing his eyes, he did a quick assessment of his body. His head hurt, his eyes were so tired with exhaustion that they were watery, he couldn’t feel the arm in his cast and the other was numb as well. His ribs stung a bit, and his chest was still too tight.

But all he could think about was John, lying in surgery.

“I’m okay,” he whispered.

His mouth was dry again from all of the talking, and his throat felt like it was on fire. The cup of ice was still by his side, and he reached for one before they began to melt. Mycroft gazed at him as he sucked on the ice, and both of them must have looked rather helpless.

“I have some things I must deal with,” Mycroft said quietly. “You are back in London, by the way. We had John flown in by helicopter…I’ll make sure his nurse knows you’re asking for him.”

Sherlock nodded. His stomach did flips at this new piece of information, but he reminded himself to just be grateful that John was alive and recovering.

Mycroft disappeared, and it didn’t take long before claustrophobia sank in again. He didn’t understand where that was coming from. It hadn’t been a problem since he was much younger, but it made him panic again. His heart monitor must have exploded because Mycroft turned around to check on him.

“I…” he tried to explain, but he couldn’t.

The truth was, he realized, he didn’t want to be alone.

“D.I. Lestrade will be here soon,” Mycroft assured. “He has some questions for John, but I told him they should wait. He was very concerned about how you two are doing.”

“Questions for John?”

Mycroft nodded but didn’t offer any further explanations. Instead he simply gazed at him, his eyes roaming over him like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Mycroft said quietly. “Get some rest.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alright, that he didn’t want to be alone- even if that meant being with his brother. But he knew he had to be the strong one in this.

Instead of arguing he simply shut his eyes, and he was surprised at how easily his body was coaxed back to sleep.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“Mycroft, I can do this myself!” Sherlock snapped as he pulled on the shirt sleeve over his cast. “Honestly, I broke my arm not my brain.”

Mycroft stepped back in defeat as Sherlock struggled to put on his own Sherlock. He winched as he moved his arm too quickly. The effects of the pain meds were wearing off as the nurse lowered the dosage. Otherwise he could admit he was feeling much better- the dizziness and nausea subsided after a couple days rest. His throat felt normal again, and he was fully hydrated.

“I broke my arm once,” Mycroft mused as he watched his brother struggle to get dressed. “In Cairo.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“What were you doing breaking your arm in Cairo?”

His brother grimaced, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Turning around, the two stared at each other, Mycroft perfectly dressed in his custom made suit and Sherlock, awkwardly standing with his shirt unbutton because he realized that was difficult to do with one hand.

“Do you mind?” He finally sighed.

Mycroft took a step forward and wordlessly began helping him button up his shirt.

“I want to see John,” Sherlock announced. Their eyes met, but his brother didn’t protest. “I want to see him I…I need to know he’s alright.”

“He’s alright,” Mycroft stated quietly.

Finished with the shirt, he stepped back, admiring his work.

“He’ll need space, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “I imagine he’s in quite a bit of shock.”

He thought back to the last time he saw John. He remembered holding his shaken flatmate, with his eyes red-rimmed and face full of exhaustion. Mycroft was right. This was far worse than he feared.

_He needs me,_ Sherlock thought.

“What do I tell him?” He asked. “About what happened? Because he deserves to know. This…fiasco…nearly cost him his legs, his life.”

A hand fell on his shoulder, and for a fleeting moment- for one of the first times ever- he actually felt like Mycroft was being comforting.

“Just tell him he’s safe now.”

It was a lame excuse, but it was all his brother had to offer. Sherlock knew it was useless to protest as Mycroft slipped out of the room once again.

The trek to John’s wing of the hospital was more trying than though. He was winded and sore just from the short walk, which he knew was just the weakness of being captive and then in the hospital. Sherlock drew in a deep breath when he finally reached the door to John’s room. He paused before entering, resting his head on the door for a moment.

At last he knocked twice and entered. He was shocked to find John in a wheelchair, dressed in a hospital gown, and staring out the window.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

No response. No sign of movement.

Carefully and quietly, Sherlock made his way around the room and grabbed a guest chair from beside the bed. The sheets were unmade and a full pitcher of water sat on the table. Sherlock grabbed it and poured a cup for John.

“Here,” he offered.

John accepted it, and Sherlock’s stomach turned to knots when he was offered a small smile. Their eyes met for the first time since captivity as they examined each other. A beard was beginning to grow on John’s face; it was something he’d never seen on his flatmate before…and he couldn’t decide how much he liked it.

Swallowing, John finally spoke up in a hoarse voice:

“How’s your arm?”

A sad smile crossed Sherlock’s face. All this, and John was worried about his arm. John’s voice was raw, and he  reached again for the water as soon as he managed to speak.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock lied.

Nevertheless, John reached up to gently pick up the cast. He winced as he realized how much it must have hurt Sherlock.

“You knew it was broken,” Sherlock said softly.

John nodded.

“You had enough to worry about,” he explained.

“And you knew you were worse off than you said.”

They simply stared at each other for a moment. John sipped at the water, for distraction, but his eyes trailed back up to his.

“I’m lucky, Sherlock,” John whispered. “I…I was in denial. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I knew exactly what the accident probably did, but I was…I was scared, Sherlock.”

Suddenly he realized his own hand was on John’s arm, and when John realized this, his eyes widened.

“I don’t remember what happened,” Sherlock admitted. “How were we rescued?”

John’s eyes drifted back to the window, and it seemed like he was having trouble remembering as well.

“The water was drugged,” John said. He spoke so quietly, almost to the floor, that Sherlock strained to hear him. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay-“

When John’s eyes flashed back to him they were red, and it looked like his whole body was bursting with exhaustion and the effort to not cry.

“It was Mycroft’s men,” he explained. “They rescued us. The water was drugged, and they took you. I heard you scream upstairs just as I was waking up, but then someone new was there. I didn’t know who he was, he was wearing a suit. He helped me up the stairs and told me I could trust him. There was a whole swarm of them, all over the house, securing the scene. They brought me outside and…it was almost morning so I could just make out you being put into an ambulance. Mycroft was with you.”

Sherlock swallowed as an unfamiliar, uncomfortable, emotion settled in his stomach at the thought of his brother coming to his rescue.

“I don’t remember that,” Sherlock said. “I remember waking up and…”

His hands drifted to his ribcage, where his bones were still sore and fragile.

“I remember there someone being there . Mycroft was in the hospital room when I came to.”

“I suppose we owe him one,” John smirked. “Did he tell you any more about what’s going on?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“He told me it had to wait, but he did say we can’t tell Victor about his dad.”

“Shit…how are we supposed to keep that one secret?”

“I don’t know.”

They gazed at each other, and it didn’t take long for Sherlock’s mind to jump from Victor to memories of the kiss. He wanted to do it again- he was _desperate_ to do it again- but John looked terrified, as though he wanted to do anything but that.

“Look, John-“ he began quietly.

“Don’t apologize. Please…don’t.” A soft smile crossed John’s face, and a hand landed in his palm. “It’s weird for me, yeah? But after all that, and with you being right by me the whole time…I…I think…”

John trailed off, like he couldn’t fit the words together right, but Sherlock understood anyway. It was pretty much everything he always wanted to say to John. He realized John’s hand trembled in his and he used his other hand to calm it.

“We don’t have to rush this,” Sherlock murmured.

Out of nowhere, their faces were only inches apart.

“No,” John breathed, “we shouldn’t.”

John’s breath was hot and raspy against his. He was painfully aware that they both smelled of hospital and drugs and lack of hygiene. His own sweaty hair clung desperately to his forehead and around his ears, and John’s lips were horribly chapped when they finally brushed against his.

“Oh god,” John moaned. Sherlock’s heart fluttered, thinking the noise was out of ecstasy, but then John pulled away and dragged his fists to his forehead, as though in pain. “Sorry…but am I the only one here who feels like they’re going completely mad?”

Letting out a dramatic sigh, John ran his hands over his tired face. He threw a sympathetic glance to Sherlock, whose chest suddenly felt heavy again.

“Sherlock, I like you, but this week has just been mad. I mean…I walked in on you snogging your ex-boyfriend!”

“ _He_ kissed me!” Sherlock snapped. “John…”

A hand rested on his knee, and Sherlock felt sick. This was wrong, it was all wrong-

“Did you miss the part where I said I like you?” John said. He smirked, but Sherlock didn’t feel any better. “This week has just been a bit crazy. We need to take it slow. We need to _talk_. We’ve both been through a trauma. We’ve survived off of adrenaline…we’re tired. I’m tired. And…”

His chest felt so tight, and it was a bit hard to breathe. He didn’t want to let John go- and he certainly didn’t want to give him time to _think_ about things.

“I don’t have feelings for Victor,” Sherlock said quietly.

Sympathy settled into John’s eyes as he studied Sherlock.

“Do you like me?” John asked.

He swallowed. His heart was pounding and words tied together at the tip of his tongue, rendering him unable to find a single sensible thing to say. So instead he leaned forward and trapped John into another kiss.

When John embraced him a hand fell to his face, caressing him. John’s hands were calloused and rough, but Sherlock placed a palm on top of it, relishing in the touch. They breathed deeply as they broke apart for a moment. One flash of John’s open mouth gave him the opportunity to wiggle his tongue inside. He moaned softly at the bitter tastes of John’s mouth. Another hand brushed against his shoulder, gripping him there for support.

Their eyes were glued together as they broke apart again. Sherlock licked his lips, taking in the taste of John lingering on them while his flatmate stared back him, face wet with sweat and emotion.

“Are you being discharged?” John asked.

He sounded so helpless and desperate that Sherlock felt horrible when he had to nod. John bit his lip, tearing the skin a bit before croaking out:

“Stay with me. Please.”

A soft smile crossed his face, and Sherlock replied:

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always...your support makes my day!! Thank you!!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

“So what exactly are you looking for?” Sherlock inquired as he and Victor’s father ducked under the crime scene tape.

They were inside what looked in the front a real estate office, but in the back there was a small room that housed the scene of James Trevor’s most recent crime scene. It was the middle of night and Sherlock was tired, cold, and starving, but he didn’t dare mention this to Mr. Trevor. As he clutched his own cup of coffee, Sherlock stole a glance to him. The man’s eyes were watery from the strain of reading notes. His face was worn and draw, and if Sherlock crept closely enough he could hear the rumbling of Mr. Trevor’s stomach.

The first day of his work experience taught him that Mr. Trevor rarely stopped for breaks, worked with an unmotivated team, and had little guidance himself when it came to finding leads. It was only from an anonymous tip that they matched the building to the crime- a “textbook drug deal”, according to Mr. Trevor. The media was spreading the rumor that the deal involved teenagers so the team was scrambled to uncover the facts before the morning news went on.

“We’re looking for anywhere the drugs may have been hidden,” Mr. Trevor explained.

Officers threw him wary looks as he followed Mr. Trevor through the crime scene. He clutched his coffee for comfort again, feeling like somehow _they knew_.

“Follow me,” Mr. Trevor said, offering him a sympathetic smile. “Are you okay? You look uncomfortable.”

He was walking through a bloody crime scene. There were cones everywhere and tape roping things off. The empty building was dark, damp, and cold, and it _smelled._ Even worse, he was helping the police find the very same drugs he tried multiple times himself.

Mr. Trevor led him to a shelf, which also had a yellow cone in front of it. The shelf held stacks and stacks of papers and folders, but the bottom was lined with binders.

“Is that client information?” Sherlock asked.

Victor’s father grinned.

“Of course not,” he replied. “The first room we walked through? That was a front for a local business. The business is faked. It’s used to throw off the police and your average passerby. All these papers? They’re blank.”

Sherlock looked from the shelf to the light coming from the front room. The room only held a single desk and two guest chairs. The sign out front read real estate, and yet now that he thought about it there wasn’t a single picture of a flat or a home around.

“But why is all of the fake business information in the back?” Sherlock asked. “It’s like they moved it.”

Nodding, Mr. Trevor said:

“You’re thinking along the right lines, but the place was ransacked after the deal went down. You can tell…there are spots along the walls and floors were furniture used to be. There were still papers thrown about when we first walked in. Someone was here before us. They could have been looking for left behind drugs or trying to cover evidence. There are many possibilities.”

Sherlock scanned the room of policemen, who seemed absentminded with their note taking and their pulling shelves off walls to look for hiding places.

“No one else seems to notice that,” he whispered.

Mr. Trevor smirked.

“Of course not, most of them are idiots. But they try, bless them.” He turned to his team and announced: “Wrap it up, guys. I have a new theory, and we’re going to have to take another look at nearby security cams to prove it.”

His team stared at him, mouths agape, as though saying _“but we’ve already done all this work!”_

“Now!” Mr. Trevor snapped.

The team got to work on wrapping up all the information, and Sherlock remained quiet as he followed Mr. Trevor back out the building. When they stopped on the street the man sighed and turned to him, apologetic.

“You don’t have to keep following me around,” he offered. “I’m probably making you bored out of your mind.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“It’s fine,” he lied.

He really was quite bored. He didn’t understand the point of simply watching someone work when he was more than capable of helping out.

“Can I help you go through the security footage?” He asked suddenly.

Mr. Trevor studied him, uncertain, and Sherlock was surprised when he was pulled further away from the crime scene.

“Sherlock, I have a confession to make. Come here.”

He was led into a nearby coffee shop.

“Detective,” the barista greeted with a kind smile.

“Sit, I’ll order us some pastries,” Mr. Trevor said. “Do you need more coffee?”

Sherlock stared at him. He was already on his third cup of the night…how much coffee was one supposed to drink? Seeing his blank expression, Mr. Trevor sighed again, paid for the food, and bought himself a fresh cuppa instead. When he sat back down he hung his head, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to feel bad for him when he took a moment to close his eyes, obviously grateful for the chance to just sit still.

“You know you’re like a son to me, right?” Mr. Trevor said quietly.

His eyes darted away as Victor’s father looked at him. He had the kindest, most desperate, expression on his face, and Sherlock realized right away what this was: an intervention.

“It’s funny, because the family hasn’t known you for very long, but we feel you’re one of us, you know?” He went on. “And I would never want anything to happen to you…just like I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my own kids. And I know you know this, and you’re probably sick of hearing me say it because you kids are in uni now, and you can look after yourself, but if you need someone to talk to, or you need guidance or help, you can come to me.”

Biting his lip, Sherlock kept his eyes peeled to the table. He knew he couldn’t have looked guiltier if he tried. He realized then what this was all about- Mr. Trevor wasn’t trying to spark a career interest with him, he was trying to scare the shit out of him.

“What will happen to the dealers, if you catch him?” He asked quietly.

“ _When_ I catch them, they’ll be prosecuted. They’ll each face hefty prison sentences…not to mention a heck of a lot of expense and effort into the trial. Their faces will be all over the news…their lives will be completely ruined. Of course, they’re drug dealers so they probably walk on thin ice everyday anyway.”

Mr. Trevor looked straight at him then, and Sherlock gulped. He knew at that moment he had to confess or he would go crazy.

“I’ve been experimenting with drugs!” He blurted out.

His hand fell to his mouth and he closed his eyes. God that sounded so _pathetic_ when he said it out loud. Disappointment flashed in Mr. Trevor’s eyes, and he felt like he might throw up.

“Just a few times,” he said quietly. “Cocaine. Just a bit, each time. I blamed the drugs you found on Victor, and I shouldn’t have. I’m a bloody coward!”

He had never felt so humiliated and helpless. Suddenly every decision he made the past few months made no sense at all, and he wished above all else that he could take it all back.

He wished Victor were there.

“Sherlock, look at me.” He struggled at first, but he finally met Mr. Trevor’s eyes. He nearly melted when he realized he was on the verge of tears, purely out of self-pity. “You know I don’t tolerate this _shit_ , and it’s not because I’m mean or unfair, but it’s because see every day what drugs can do to innocent people like yourself who just want to _experiment_. Not only are you getting yourself involved in something that’s really, really stupid- something that will ruin your body and not to mention your mind- it’s a bloody expensive and dangerous habit too.”

“It’s not a habit!”

“Did you try it more than once?” He didn’t have the guts to reply. Mr. Trevor let out a long sigh before continuing: “Did you snort it or inject it?”

His voice was tiny as he admitted:

“I tried both.”

“Let me see your arm.”

It had been awhile since he last tried anything, but Sherlock could still see the exact faint white marks from his last _experiment_. Mr. Trevor had no problems finding them himself, and he froze up when rough fingers landed on the scars.

“Your too young for this, Sherlock,” his voice sounded so broken that Sherlock wasn’t sure which of them might break first. “Christ, you’re too young for this.”

“It really wasn’t that big of a deal,” he whispered. “It was just stupid stuff. Just a couple of times, like I told you. I didn’t like it.”

“But you still tried it again,” he pointed out. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, and Sherlock was grateful he was at least trying to not lose control. “You saw how angry I was when I thought the drugs belonged to Victor. I _am_ that angry. But frankly, the difference is that then I was pretty mad at myself too. I know I’m a good father. I know how hard I try to raise my kids well. I don’t know the full story about your father, but clearly he’s not exactly a role model.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell to the table. Every ounce of his being wanted to tell Mr. Trevor the truth. As far as he knew, Victor hadn’t told him anything near the truth about his cuts and bruises. They always said it was bullying, and given his shyness and lack of a social life Victor’s father never thought anything more of it.

But he wasn’t sure he was ready to have that conversation; he wasn’t sure he could handle living through it again.

“Are you saying it’s not a surprise that I’ve turned out to be a complete failure?” He shot instead.

Mr. Trevor’s eyes went wide with shock, and his own heart began skipping beats purely out of fear. He had never dreamed of raising his voice to Victor’s father- and certainly shouldn’t have now.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mr. Trevor sighed.

“You can kick me out, if it will make you feel better,” Sherlock mumbled. “I’m probably a terrible role model for your son.”

“Shut up!” Mr. Trevor snapped. An accusing finger was shot toward him, and he froze. “I mean it, Sherlock. I’m trying to be really patient with you. You lied to me, you betrayed me, and I can’t imagine how Victor feels, assuming he knows.”

“Well he didn’t talk to me for weeks, if that tells you anything. He was pretty disgusted.”

“And for a good reason! You can’t just throw something like this around like it’s nothing!”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sherlock muttered, making to get up. “I don’t have to come to work with you anymore. It’s wrong, and I can find somewhere else to stay for the summer too.”

He made to stand but was immediately interrupted.

“Sit down, Holmes, now!” He’d never heard Mr. Trevor sound that angry, not even when he was yelling at his son, and the sheer power of his voice sent him tumbling back into the chair. “If you haven’t noticed I’m trying to talk some sense into you! You’ve betrayed my family, Sherlock. You got Victor into some serious trouble he didn’t deserve-“

Sherlock didn’t have the heart to point out Victor once used as well.

“I’m not sure what it’s going to take to win back our trust. Well, my trust. From the sounds coming from my son’s bedroom you already regained _his_ trust.” Sherlock’s face went completely red and he swallowed nervously, but Mr. Trevor didn’t dwell on it. “You’re an adult, Sherlock, and I can’t _make_ you do anything, especially since I’m not even family, but I sure as hell can educate you so that you can see how much of an idiot you’re being right now.”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Sherlock forced to take the warning without being hurt by it. He knew Mr. Trevor was just doing what parents did- he was just grateful that the words were all that was being thrown at him.

“Honestly, you’re lucky you have someone here to yell at you like this. Yes, you’re still coming to work with me, and you’re going to sit through the trial when we catch these guys. My guys will think it’s just a work experience for you, but it’s a _life_ experience for you. Seriously, I should take you down to the A &E and show you some of the overdose victims we get.”

Sherlock paled as bile raced up his throat again, and he was grateful when Mr. Trevor let the idea slide. With a heavy sigh he picked up his cuppa and stood up.

“Let’s go home,” he offered. “You can get some sleep, and you’re coming back to work with me in the morning.”

“Aren’t you going to get some sleep?” He asked.

With the restaurant lighting he could see even clearer the lines of exhaustion running beneath the man’s eyes, and Sherlock felt badly for him. It made him feel even worse to be one of the idiots he was chasing after himself.

“I’ve got some reports to write up,” he admitted. He sighed again and placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I just know that I might be the only chance to get you to realize what kind of danger you’re putting yourself in.”

Sherlock nodded, but he couldn’t help but to add:

“I know…but seriously, it was only a couple of times. It made me feel so… _weird_ that it was enough to scare me away from trying it again. I promise.”

Mr. Trevor gazed at him with tired eyes and sighed:

“Let’s just keep it that way, alright?”

 

 “Sherlock?”

A soft voice called him away from his dream and he moaned, unwilling to be forced to face reality again.

“Sherlock, wake up, it’s seven in the morning.”

Lestrade.

Groaning, he sat up and realized he had fallen asleep slumped in a waiting room chair. It was morning again, and a new shift of nurses roamed around the hospital. A blanket was thrown over him and a sack full of clothes lay on the floor.

“Lestrade?” He mumbled.

Rubbing his eyes, he regained his bearings.

“They said you stayed here all night,” Lestrade said.

“Didn’t feel like going home,” he mumbled.

“Come on, let’s get you some coffee and breakfast.”

The D.I. helped him stand, and he was surprised to see how drained he still was, like no amount of sleep could make up for the past few days.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

He swallowed, finding his mouth too dry to do anything but form simple sentences.

“He’s fine, he’s being moved.” Lestrade seemed to notice he was having trouble walking straight and grabbed onto his arm for support.

“Moved?”

“To somewhere safe.”

Sherlock stopped and studied Lestrade, noticing for the first time how uncomfortable he looked, like he had a secret.

“He’s not here, is he?” Sherlock whispered.

Lestrade hesitated and glanced away, as though debating telling him the truth.

“Safe house,” Lestrade admitted. “Mycroft had him moved a couple of hours ago. He’s being taken care of by a personal doctor of your brother’s.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Typical. But- John isn’t stable enough to be moved, is he? And it’s a hospital, aren’t we safe here?”

Shrugging, Lestrade replied:

“Do you really think he tells me those kinds of things? I’m just a messenger. And a driver, apparently. The safe house is in Cardiff.”

“We’re going to bloody _Wales_?!”

Lestrade reached out and forced him to face him. He looked exhausted himself, Sherlock couldn’t help but to wonder what the past few days had been like for him. For the first time he felt bad for leaving Lestrade in the dark, and judging by the look on his face the D.I. felt hurt because of it.

“There’s a lot going on here that you don’t know about, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied quietly. “There’s a lot that goes on behind your back, and not to spite you but to protect you. You have no idea-“

“And you do?” Sherlock shot. “ _You?_ ”

Again Lestrade looked offended, but this time Sherlock didn’t have the heart to care. He just wanted to _understand_ already.

“He’s told the people that need to know,” Lestrade admitted. “Just come with me, alright? You can sleep in the car and when we get there we’ll talk to Mycroft.”

“Will Victor be there?”

Their eyes met, and Lestrade’s melted a bit at the mention of Victor. His knowledge of Victor mainly started after their breakup. Lestrade was there for all of Sherlock’s fuck-ups when it came to drugs and living on the streets. He knew the pain Victor caused him, but Sherlock hadn’t shed much light on the details.

“Victor’s fine,” Lestrade assured, placing a hand on his shoulder. “His sister’s fine. Just…please. Come on, Sherlock.”

“Fine. Whatever. As long as you buy the food.”

Before they pulled onto the motorway, Lestrade stopped and loaded up on bagels, donuts, coffee, and bottled water from a nearby bakery.

“Sorry, I know you need some protein, but we’re running short on time. I’ll try to make another stop on the way, but Mycroft wants us there as soon as possible.”

Sherlock didn’t protest as he reached for a bagel and some water. His throat was so dry that it burned, and his stomach was so empty it made him feel sick. For a moment he simply ate and watched as they slowly made their way out of town.

“Bloody traffic,” Lestrade mumbled. “With all of Mycroft’s power I don’t see why he couldn’t get us a private jet.”

Snorting, Sherlock simply continued devouring the bagel and started on a second. He was used to not eating during cases, but being deprived for so long because of someone else made him feel hungrier than he could remember being in a long time.

“How’s the arm?” Lestrade asked, glancing uncertainly at his cast.

Sherlock looked down. Now that he was forced to think about it, the pain medication was wearing off and his body once again felt heavy and sore.

“It’s fine,” he lied.

In all honesty he felt sorry for himself because he already knew how hard recovery would be for _all_ of them. He just didn’t want to think about it. From the corner of his eye he could still see Lestrade eyeing him out of concern.

“I promise you, I really don’t know that much,” Lestrade said.

“I know what’s going on,” Sherlock admitted. He took a swig of water before continuing: “I know the gist of it. It’s all some revenge thing. It’s petty, predictable, and boring.”

“Only you would find being in a near-fatal car crash and held in a dungeon boring,” Lestrade snickered.

Sherlock clutched the water and gazed out the window, but he soon found that between the images flashing before his eyes and the Lestrade’s speeding that he was becoming car sick.

“You alright?” Lestrade asked.

“A bit nauseous,” he admitted. “It’s fine…I’ll just sleep.”

Just then Lestrade’s mobile rang, and when Sherlock glanced over he was shocked to see Mycroft’s name flash on the caller I.D.

“Hello?” Lestrade asked, as though forcing himself to be casual. “He’s fine. Yeah…sure, here.”

Sherlock jerked the phone away from Lestrade.

“Mycroft?” He answered, sounding a little too desperate.

“Sherlock?” He froze, completely shocked when it was John he heard instead. “Sherlock it’s me, are you alright?”

Breathing hard, Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, hoping he would somehow be able to help. But Lestrade only smirked, as though he somehow knew what was going on.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sherlock rasped. “How are you?”

A knot formed in his stomach as he remembered the state he left John in.

“I’m good,” John replied. He could hear in John’s voice that he was struggling between smiling and being overwhelmed with emotion. “I’m alright. Mycroft’s got me somewhere safe. So he says. I think Victor’s here too, and he’s gotten someone to get Victor’s father and sister.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“He’s bringing them back together?”

“Yeah,” John breathed. “Crazy, right? I don’t understand what’s happening, but Mycroft said you were coming too.”

“I am. I’m on my way with Lestrade.”

“Good. I want to see you, I want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you too.”

God he wanted to talk to him. He wanted to talk to him, he wanted to hold him, he wanted to kiss him, long and hard…

Lestrade was smirking again, and he froze up.

“Look after yourself, alright?” John said.

A small smile crossed his face.

“You too. Just sleep, and I’ll be there soon.”

John let out a laugh.

“Yeah, you do the same.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

They both hung up at the same time, and Sherlock had never felt so empty after saying goodbye to him. He gazed at the mobile for a moment before handing it back to Lestrade.

“Is everything okay in paradise?” Lestrade smirked.

Sherlock sank into his seat, wrapped his arms around himself, and turned to the window.

“Come on, Sherlock, you can talk to me!” Lestrade said. “We’re friends! We’re _men_ , we can talk about these things!”

Squirming, Sherlock wrestled with the fact that Lestrade was right. There was virtually no one he could talk to about this kind of thing- not that we _wanted_ to talk about it. But somehow, being trapped in Lestrade’s car and exhausted beyond belief talked him into thinking it was a good idea.

But not before he could get something out of it first.

“Fine then,” Sherlock grinned. “We’re men, we can talk about these things. How long have you been fucking my brother?”

Lestrade choked on his coffee and nearly ran the car off the road. As he swerved back into the lane, the D.I’s face went pale, and his hands gripped the steering wheel.

“It was once, alright!” Lestrade snapped. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled as Lestrade glared at him in horror. “Fine, twice! Once right after I first met him and once-“

“Recently?” Sherlock teased. “Very recently. Recently enough for you to add him back into your contacts…and on a first name basis too. Is he that good in bed or are you just that desperate?”

Lestrade looked like he might puke, and while Sherlock could admit he didn’t feel too comfortable talking about this it felt good to be the one joking around for a change.

“It’s complicated,” Lestrade mumbled.

“No, it’s sex,” Sherlock shot, “with my brother. Do you know how disgusting that is?”

“He’s just…it’s just that he’s…he’s very intimidating!”

“That’s just gross.”

“What about you and John?” Lestrade snapped. “I know you and Victor were… _intimate_. John’s obviously gay-“

“Obviously?!”

“Do you not notice how he looks at you at crime scenes?” Lestrade teased. “Be honest, Sherlock: are you two sleeping together?”

Sherlock swallowed. His mind was racing like mad, debating about what to tell Lestrade. His heart pounded with the realization of the relationship between his brother and his D.I., and with the realization of his own feelings for John. He couldn’t remember ever being so overwhelmed with emotion…not since Victor.

“We kissed,” Sherlock admitted. “More than once. I…I care about him deeply. And I believe he feels the same about me.”

 

He fell silent, and Lestrade didn’t reply right away. Eyes glued to the road, he sat frozen in shock. Sherlock might as well have told Lestrade he was sleeping with _his_ brother.

“No more feelings for Victor then?” Lestrade asked quietly.

Biting his lip, Sherlock admitted:

“He snogged me in the middle of my own bedroom.”

“Christ, your body has probably experienced more sexual energy this week than it has in nearly a decade,” Lestrade laughed. “No wonder you look so in shock.”

He wrapped his arms around himself, too embarrassed to admit that Lestrade was right. For the past few days he felt like he was walking on ice, and not because of all the physical danger. His body felt so on edge. Every time John so much as looked at him he froze up and goosebumps danced over his skin.

“It will be fine, Sherlock, don’t worry,” Lestrade said. “The scariest part about love is realizing that you’re in love. After that it’s just…sex. And a lot of eating out.”

“I didn’t say anything about love!” Sherlock exclaimed, horrified.

_Love._ What the fuck did Lestrade think was going on here?

“Sorry!” Lestrade said, throwing one hand up in defense while concentrating on the road. “Fine. No love. But seriously, Sherlock, you and John are like…it just makes sense, yeah? Even I can see that. You should talk to him when we get there.”

Sherlock nodded. For once, Lestrade said something that somewhat made sense.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the nice comments! I hope you're still enjoying the story, even if the update took a bit long. I let the chapter go a bit long to make up for it a little!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I promise Johnlock I deliver on it! And this is only the beginning.

Sherlock groaned when he opened his eyes and realized they were _still driving_.

“Don’t complain,” Lestrade grumbled. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he blinked rapidly, obviously fighting exhaustion. “You haven’t been driving. Traffic was mad getting out of London.”

He glanced over at Sherlock, taking in his appearance. Though he slept both in the car and at the hospital he didn’t feel rested. He was sore, and his stomach was growling again. His mouth was dry, and as though reading his mind Lestrade handed him a bag.

“Water and crisps,” Lestrade offered. “Grabbed them when I stopped to fill up the car. Mycroft will have more food stocked at the safe house.”

At the word “safe house”, Sherlock sank back into his seat and rests his head against the cool window. He still hadn’t accepted that they weren’t going back to Baker Street.

“How long will I have to be there?” he mumbled.

Lestrade shrugged.

“God knows what Mycroft’s thinking. I think this is our turning…”

Sherlock peered out the window, surprised to realize they were in the countryside, turning onto a road that looked like it led to nowhere. A sudden flashback hit him, and he was back in the rental car with John screaming at his side. He flinched violently, closing his eyes and trying to remember to breathe.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Fine,” Sherlock gasped. “Fine.”

“You can use that bag to throw up in too, if you need.”

A ghost of a smile crossed the D.I.’s face at an ill-attempt at comic-relief. Lestrade shouldn’t have joked because his stomach was still turning into knots at the thought of John being injured.

“You’re a bit pale,” Lestrade noted. “Shit, maybe we discharged you too early.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed again. He couldn’t bring himself to look out the window; everything felt too familiar. So he closed his eyes as he admitted: “It’s the road…the countryside. Flashbacks, that’s all. I should have seen the car coming. John tried to warn me. I could have stopped it all.”

“Stop that! Don’t do that Sherlock, please. You know you’re being ridiculous. If they hadn’t gotten to you on that road they would have found another way.”

John’s screams flooded his mind again, and he flinched.

“I think we’re here,” Lestrade announce quietly a few moments later.

He dared to peel his eyes open to find a small cottage tucked away in the woods. Glancing around, he noted the lack of cars or signs of life. Lestrade parked around back and walked around to his side of the car to help him out.

“This is Mycroft’s safe house?” He shot, scrunching up his nose. “Nice and secluded for someone to come and take us all out.”

“Shut it!” Lestrade snapped. “Come on.”

Sherlock stumbled when he tried to walk, out of sheer exhaustion lack of movement in the past couple of days. He didn’t fight when Lestrade threw an arm around him and helped him walk inside.

As they stepped inside the house, Sherlock was stumped to see that it was completely empty.

“What?” He wondered out loud, mouth agape.

“Watch,” Lestrade grinned.

Taking in a deep breath, he walked exactly fifteen feet from the door, knelt down, and knocked five times. Sherlock stood back on instinct when a gap opened in the floor, and Lestrade motioned for him to come over.

“Secret staircase!” Lestrade announced proudly. “Neat, huh?”

Sherlock peered down, only noticing that the space beneath them was dark.

“Very _Mycroft_.”

Lestrade looked down the pathway as well, and nodded.

“Agreed. Come on.”

Carefully Lestrade stepped down, and as he did a staircase lit up. It was long, but obviously led into a living space. More light followed them as they trailed down exactly fifteen steps to a ground floor. As soon as they stepped down on ground floor, the place suddenly went black again. He drew in a shaky breath as that same feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed him.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the D.I. suddenly announced. His hand landed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he whispered: “State your name.”

Sherlock swallowed nervously before announced:

“Sherlock Holmes.”

The room immediately flickered to life to reveal…a foyer. A small foyer that led to an average-looking flat door. Lestrade knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal-

“Sherlock!” Victor screamed, leaping at him and throwing his arms around him before Sherlock had time to respond. “Oh my god….thank god you’re alright! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

He broke into sobs as he buried his head into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stood awkwardly, wrapping his arms around his ex’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Victor whispered. “It should have been me. I should have never let you go on my behalf.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock assured him.

His voice was hoarse as he offered Victor a soft squeeze before letting him go. Victor’s face melted as they gazed at each other. He clearly hadn’t slept since seeing Sherlock and John off. His face was streaked with dried tears and new ones were beginning to overflow.

“Come on,” Victor said, tugging on his hand. “This place is brilliant, and someone wants to see you-“

“Sherlock!”

Once again he didn’t have time to brace himself as a teenaged girl threw herself at him. All he saw of Hailey Trevor was a sea of long, straight, brown hair before he was engulfed into her arms. He breathed her in; as she smelled of fresh soap and shampoo.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered.

When she pulled away, Sherlock froze. Her hands lingered in his and she beamed, knowing she was being checked out.

To say Victor’s sister grew up was an understatement. Hailey was a woman, in every sense of the word. She had gorgeous pale skin and long skinny legs that left her standing at exactly Victor’s height. She looked relatively unharmed, save for a stitched up cut on her forehead and a fading black eye. Someone had given her a fresh change of clothes, and she filled out the jeans and t-shirt well. He swallowed, realizing that everyone was staring at him and that he was essentially being entranced by his ex-boyfriend’s little sister.

He just couldn’t believe she was the same girl he used to explain math problems and offer violin lessons to.

“You’re hot,” she grinned.

Sherlock choked as he attempted to reply:

“Thanks.”

“Really!” Hailey exclaimed. His body went stiffed as she reached out and brushed one of his curls out of his face. “Age has done wonders for you.”

His cheeks were red with his embarrassment as he turned to Victor, hoping for a way out. It didn’t help that Victor was looking him over as well, surely remembering their kiss before Sherlock left.

“I…John?” He managed.

Victor nodded, looking slightly disappointed.

“He’s in the backroom,” Victor explained.

Sherlock’s eyes roamed the safe house as Victor led them inside. He had to admit, the place was pretty amazing. Besides the fact they were underground, the place looked like an average home. It felt very modern, with wooden floors, leather furniture, and what looked like a fully-stocked kitchen off to the side. His stomach growled at the sight but he ignored it. He listened to the pounding of his heart instead as Victor led him through a small hallway.

A bedroom door was propped open, and Victor knocked on it.

“John?” Victor called softly.

There was no reply, but Victor turned to Sherlock anyway.

“He’s been pretty quiet,” Victor explained, his eyes full of sympathy. “I feel so bad for him, Sherlock. He could have died-“

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, holding up his hand.

Leaning forward, he offered Victor a soft kiss on the cheek. Before pulling back, he whispered:

“Thanks for taking care of him.”

Victor nodded, but a sad smile crept across his face.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Victor asked. Sherlock nodded. “He’s been asking about you the whole time, demanding to know how you’re doing. I can tell he really likes you too. You two are good for each other. I’m sorry if I screwed things up by kissing you.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s okay. We…it’s…complicated.”

Victor smiled a little and stepped aside to let him through.

The bedroom he stepped into was small and bare, but it worked. A full size bed sat in the center, surrounded by two end tables which were stocked with medical supplies. As soon as his eyes found John, snuggled into the black duvet, his heart stopped.

“John,” he called softly.

There was no reply as he quietly stepped around the bed so that he was looking down on his friend. John was sleeping, but even his still form took Sherlock’s breath away. He’d obviously cleaned up: his face was free of grime and his wounds had fresh stitches. He was propped up by pillows and his legs rested on a stack of cushions. He was breathing rapidly in short, anxious, pants, and Sherlock quickly registered it as: nightmare.

 A pitcher of water set next to a washcloth on the bedside table. Sherlock pulled up a wooden chair rested by the bed and sat in it as he dampened the cloth and ran it gently across John’s forehead. John immediately stirred awake with a strangled gasp, but when his eyes laid on his flatmate he grinned.

“Hey,” John greeted, his voice strained but relief.

“Hey.”

For a moment they just stared at each other. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Should he kiss him? Hug him? What should he _say_?

“Some safe house, huh?” John grinned. “This is like on an MI-5 level. Do you think that’s who Mycroft works for?”

He knew who Mycroft worked for, but of course he couldn’t say so he simply shrugged.

“It’s pretty impressive. How are you?”

John sank into the sheets, pulling the duvet over his shoulders a bit more. Disappointment shone on his face, as though he had hoped Sherlock wouldn’t pry.

“I’m okay,” John sighed. “Just sore and tired, but that’s to be expected. Mycroft had some special government medic look me over. He gave me some drugs to help me sleep which was nice, but I can’t relax. I just feel like I can’t accept this is over, not until we’re back at Baker Street, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded, “I feel the same. Here…you should drink.”

He poured John and himself a cup of water.

“You look tired,” John commented as he sat up to drink.

“Lestrade’s car isn’t really the best place for napping,” Sherlock said. “I can’t believe Mycroft took you from the hospital without telling me. I was waiting for you.”

“You stayed there all night?” John echoed, gazing at him in awe.

Sherlock nodded, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“Lestrade woke me this morning,” he explained. “I’ve been worried about you, John.”

He awkwardly placed a hand on John’s knee, wondering if it were okay for him to do so. John didn’t protest, but his eyes went wide as he gazed at the intruding hand, as though trying to register what it meant.

“Sherlock, I-“

As John’s voice trailed off, Sherlock quickly pulled his hand away.

“No!” John cried, reaching out for it. When their hands connected again Sherlock gasped, and he could practically feel the beginnings of arousal awakening in him. John’s wild eyes gazed back at him, and he had the feeling his friend felt the same way. “Sherlock, I can’t deny that I care about you. That’s what I wanted to say. I’ve been worried, sick, not being around you. When they took you from me, back in that _place_ , it was like my whole world stopped. I had my first panic attack in years, James Trevor will attest to that. And when I saw how hurt you are after it all-“

“I’m fine!”

“He beat you, Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “And he would have kept at it if Mycroft hadn’t have come for us.”

His hand curled into Sherlock’s so that their fingers interlocked, and he squeezed John’s palm.

“You could have died in that wreck,” Sherlock whispered. “I woke up and you were screaming and…I knew then, I mean I’ve known for a long time, but I knew then…I can’t _just_ be friends with you. I can’t explain it. I don’t know what is because, well, we both know how rubbish I am at emotions.”

John chuckled, and a sheepish grin crossed Sherlock’s face.

“I feel the same,” John admitted quietly. “Whatever this is, I feel the same.”

Sherlock leaned in, deciding it was easiest to describe the feelings bouncing around inside him with a kiss. John breathed in deeply as their lips connected. He stayed perfectly still at first but then tugged at Sherlock’s arms, beckoning him closer.

Gasping a bit, Sherlock deepened the kiss as he climbed into the bed next to John. He closed his eyes, letting his tongue wonder around John’s mouth, tasting his teeth and teasing the roof of his mouth. John groaned quietly and pulled him closer. Minding John’s injuries, he wrapped an arm around him and continued desperately devouring him. He kicked off one shoe then another, with no greater intentions in mind than making himself more comfortable, but as soon as he did John planted his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled away.

“Not here,” John gasped, looking up at him.

Their eyes connected, and Sherlock’s heart raced with the realization of _he does want to, then!_

“Not here,” Sherlock agreed softly. “Baker Street. My room or yours. Whenever you’re ready.”

John nodded, licking his lips.

“I appreciate that.”

He kissed Sherlock this time, and he let himself be taken over. John’s injuries limited their options of mobility, but he leaned against Sherlock as much as possible, pressing against him so hard that Sherlock worried they might be getting in over their heads too soon.

John’s tongue roamed his mouth, desperately teasing him with no real rhythm. He realized John needed guidance, having never kissed a man before, and Sherlock parted his lips. The kiss continued as a simple dance of their lips grazing over each other’s mouth until a sudden burst of bravery hit him, and he planted wet kisses against John’s chin and cheek. He kissed at his neck, sucking gently at the skin there until John groaned.

“God,” John shuddered. “Rubbish at emotions my arse. _Christ_ , Sherlock!”

Grinning, Sherlock’s hands roamed around to John’s back, gripping at his t-shirt as his lips attacked his ear, sucking lightly.

“Okay!” John gasped. He planted his fists against Sherlock’s shoulder again, panting for breath. “Okay, if we’re going to do this at the flat and not here then we have to stop.”

Sherlock nodded. His body was already trembling with excitement, egging him on and begging for pleasure, but he knew John was right. They were both still tired, injured, and in some strange government safe house with his ex-boyfriend just down the hall. It just wouldn’t be right.

“Just stay here with me,” John said softly, pulling him closer.

Nodding again, Sherlock nuzzled against John’s neck. He let his arms remained around John, holding him close just as John wrapped him in a similar embrace. Sherlock shuddered at the feeling of being held but soon settled into it, relaxing into John’s body with easy breaths.

“Is this hurting you?” He asked.

John shook his head, though he winced a bit at the same time.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispered, gently releasing his grip.

“Here-“ John reached for his hands instead.

Their eyes stayed locked together as they rolled over on their backs. Sherlock leaned in, offering John one last kiss. A grateful smile lingered on John’s face as his eyes fluttered closed, and Sherlock let his own eyes fall shut as well, feeling like he might finally be able to get some peaceful rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: more flashbacks to explain exactly what happened between Sherlock and Trevor, explanations from Mycroft, and the return of Mr. Trevor. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your support!!!!!!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This flashback chapter kicks off insight into what happened to James Trevor all those years ago. Just to warn you, this chapter contains sex, violence, and weapons.

“Oh god!” Sherlock moaned as Victor lined himself up alongside his arse and teased the cleft with just the tip of his cock.

Panting hard, Sherlock grasped the pillows behind him and sheets beneath him as Victor breathed in deeply and pushed in.

“Oh shit,” Victor gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

Sherlock squirmed and let out a shaky breath as he adjusting to the tightness and tried to relax.

“Relax,” Victor ordered, reading his mind. “You’re so wound up today.”

“I’m trying,” Sherlock mumbled.

Pupils blown wide, he gazed up at the ceiling, fighting to clear his mind and just give into _Victor_. But the case he worked with Mr. Trevor today was rough, and he couldn’t help but to think of the man they talked to- younger than Sherlock himself- who ended the day by getting arrested for possession.

“Look at me,” Victor growled.

Sherlock shuddered, riddled by the clash of the horrors of the case and the pleasure boiling in his veins. He snapped his eyes to his boyfriend, who grasped his knees and pushed harder. Leaning down, Victor groaned as he trapped Sherlock into a wet, sloppy, kiss. Their tongues remained tangled in their dance as Victor kept pushing and Sherlock began thrusting toward him.

“Oh!” He murmured against Victor’s lips.

“Now do I have your attention?” Victor teased.

_“Yes!”_

They breathed out at the same time as Sherlock came and Victor pulled out, stroking himself.

“Yes,” Victor echoed quietly.

A grin spread across Victor’s face as he collapsed beside Sherlock. He knew his boyfriend was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the ceiling. The pleasure was melting away quickly as he thought of the handcuffs being placed around the kid’s wrist. Mr. Trevor had stared at _him_ the whole time, as though observing and enjoying the guilt he was feeling.

“Sherlock,” Victor called, raking a hand through his hair. When Sherlock finally looked to him, Victor offered him a kind smile. “That was _good_ , but where did you go?”

“Just-“

_Bang!_

They shot straight up.

There was another long _bang_ , followed by the sound of breaking glass.

“Someone’s breaking in,” Victor whispered.

Sherlock’s hand instinctively danced toward his, seeking comfort as his heart raced. There was more breaking glass, and Victor frantically reached for the phone that usually sat by his bed.

“Fucking shit!” Victor shot under his breath when he realized it wasn’t there.

Their eyes flashed to each other, and this time Victor held onto his hand.

“Hide in the bathroom,” Victor whispered. “I’ll try to sneak into Hailey’s room, maybe there’s a phone in there.”

There were footsteps downstairs, and Victor’s eyes went wide.

“Hide!” Victor said, pushing him out of bed.

Sherlock wanted to kiss him one last time, but Victor already jumped out of bed. He watched, terrified, as Victor crept toward the door and paused before going through it. His entire body shook as he fled to the attached bathroom and locked the door behind him. Planting his ear against the door, he listened carefully. Footsteps raced through the downstairs hall, but he couldn’t hear anything from upstairs.

Then suddenly a scream erupted through the house, and Sherlock nearly became ill when he registered it as Victor. Without thinking, he threw opened the bathroom door, rushed through the bedroom and out to the hall…

Where he found Victor pinned to the ground with a gun to his head.

Sherlock’s eyes trailed up to find three men hovering above his lover. They were wearing masks, but Sherlock’s eyes still roamed their bodies, taking in every detail as fast as they could. Two of the men were huge, with muscular arms and veins popping out of their neck. One was smaller, clearly younger, with boney arms and ribs that were nearly visible through his black shirt. Their shoes were filthy and their trousers all seemed too big.

“Against the wall!” The biggest of the three shouted.

With a gasp he found himself pinned roughly against the wall. He choked and fought for air as a thick arm pressed itself against his neck. Something cold and metal brushed against the skin just beneath his chin, and his heart stopped when he realized: _knife_. He dared to shoot his eyes toward Victor, who was face down on the carpet. He could tell from his trembling and desperate gasps for breaths that Victor was still conscious, but his hair was disheveled and his eyes danced open and closed as though reeling from shock and pain.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Victor gasped. “My father is-“

The smallest of the group stomped on Victor’s back and pushed down hard. Victor bit his lip, and Sherlock’s heart skipped beats.

“We know who your fucking father is!” He snapped.

He kicked at Victor’s back again before forcing him to roll back over. His gun was right in Victor’s face, and Sherlock had to fight the tears stinging in his eyes from pain and lack of oxygen.

“His son’s as stupid as he is!” The third man smirked.

“Shut up!” The one holding Sherlock exclaimed.

Though he yelled at one of his own, Sherlock was pushed against the wall roughly before being pulled away. The knife pressed deeper into his neck, and he closed his eyes tightly before turning them back to Victor. Victor gazed at him frantically, and Sherlock had never seen him look so afraid.

Stay strong, Sherlock thought desperately, if not just for me.

“Show me where your father keeps his emergency funds,” the man holding Victor demanded. Victor hesitated and was punished with a swift kick to the ribs. “I know exactly what he keeps. There are two cards, and you know it.”

“You’re breaking into his house for credit card information?” Victor said, genuinely puzzled.

He was kicked again, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to cry out:

“Leave him alone! He doesn’t know!”

His outburst was rewarded by his back being shoved roughly against the wall, and a fist came down on his face. Sherlock screamed as the knife connected with the skin beneath his eye. His hands flew to his face, but not in enough time to prevent the arm wrapping around his neck tightly. Choking, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and closed as he desperately held onto consciousness.

The pain felt too familiar.

“You know!” The second man snapped. He nodded to the man holding Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked, confused. A fist dove into his stomach once, then into his ribs, before he was shoved to the ground, coughing. His stomach felt so tight, yet his insides felt completely out of place, like everything inside him had been dislodged from where they should be.

“Stop!” Victor cried. “I don’t know! Why the _fuck_ do you want his credit information? We don’t have that much money!”

Another punch to the ribs, and Sherlock’s vision blacked out for a moment.

“Take us there, now!”

Knuckles flew across Sherlock’s face and he stumbled forward, collapsing on the ground again. He gasped for air, and as hard as he tried not to, groaned in pain.

“Fine!” Victor shot. His hand trembled as he was left to help himself stand. Someone pulled Sherlock to his feet, but he was too breathless and beaten to fight back.

A wave of nausea hit him as he was pushed toward the stairs, and he stumbled down the first couple before catching himself against the wall. Someone grabbed him by the waistband of his trousers and smirked, and he felt humiliated as he was forced down the steps. Fingertips pierced into his hips and neck, and he knew the bruises left behind would be an embarrassment.

The pain was _so_ familiar.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories that flooded back to him as soon as the first punch struck him. The smell of alcohol danced back to him, suffocating him, and breathing was becoming nearly impossible. He was left in the hall as Victor led the gunmen into his father’s room. A knife stared down at him as he tried to fight the memories…

_Being pushed against the wall, held down, filthy breath in his ear, screaming at him-_

Victor was back in minutes, breathing far too rapidly. His face was a deathly pale, like he was hyperventilating. He clutched his stomach and appeared as though he might fall over at any moment.

“Is it there?” The man with the knife asked.

The gunman was holding a small safe, and the key for it was wrapped around his finger.

 “Yeah, it was there,” the gunman announced. “Let’s get out of here.”

He threw the case onto the ground, leaving currency, paperwork, and credit cards scattering across the ground. Victor’s eyes narrowed when he realized they didn’t bother even taking the money, and Sherlock realized he must have taken something out of it in the bedroom.

“Hey,” the man with the knife spat in his face.

Sherlock’s breaths came in sharp gasps as he looked up. He could see the man grin beneath his mask, and a hand fell on his face, patting him casually. Then his arm pulled back, and a sharp pain erupted in his jaw as he flew to the floor, clutching his mouth. His vision danced, bile raced up his throat, and the door slammed in the background.

“Sherlock!” Victor called desperately.

Coughing and gasping for breath, Victor fell to the ground and crawled to him. Sherlock felt numb as he lay on the ground, helpless. His eyes nearly rolled all the way back as his head lay tilted; he was unresponsive. He couldn’t find the strength to say or do anything.

“Sherlock,” Victor sobbed. “Sherlock, look at me!”

Victor touched his face, and Sherlock flinched violently. His skin felt disgusting beneath Victor’s touch.

_Knocked to the ground, hand across his face, tears in his eyes, a fist to his stomach-_

He was too in shock to do anything but lay there completely frozen until he finally blacked out.

 

Sherlock woke to bright lights staring down at him and the strong aroma of disinfectant and blood. He gagged as he adjusted to the light and looked around-

_Mycroft._

Mycroft was there, sitting beside the bed.

His brother.

Sherlock blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. Or dead.

Mycroft stared back at him, looking uncharacteristically small and helpless. His shoulders were hunched forward, a suit jacket rest on the back of the plastic chair, and his face was drained and pale. He clearly rushed here from an assignment, after possibly having just gotten off a plane shortly beforehand.

“Mycroft?” He mumbled.

His heart leapt when his brother stood up and stepped forward, placing a gentle hand at his bedside. He actually looked sympathetic, and the thought of his brother actually caring about him- or pretending to- nearly broke him. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw his brother, let alone the last time Mycroft expressed any kind of concern toward him.

“I’m still listed as your emergency contact,” Mycroft explained. “They wanted to call Father but-“

_Oh god._

Rolling over, he reached for a plastic pan that lay on a tray beside him and emptied his stomach out. A hand rest on his back, and Sherlock felt a numb again as his stomach sank. He rubbed a hand across his mouth and continued leaning over the bed, feeling too nauseated to move.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called quietly.

He knelt on the ground so that he was looking up at his little brother, and it was almost enough to make Sherlock sick again. What was it that happened to make _Mycroft_ run to the hospital and stay at his side?

They stayed silent for a moment and simple observed each other, taking in the changes.

Mycroft looked like he aged a decade in just the last few years. His eyes were tired, and judging by the shadows beneath him sleep was a rare treat. He’d gained some weight, but his movements and muscle beneath his collared shirt suggested he didn’t exactly work a desk job. He literally couldn’t remember the last time he sat eyes on his brother. Mycroft’s role in his life was such a distant, miniscule, one that Sherlock felt like he hardly knew him. All he knew was that Mycroft all but ran away when he turned eighteen, leaving him to deal with their monster of a father alone.

At the thought of _him_ he threw up again, and when he was done he rolled back onto the back in defeat. He felt helpless as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

“Why are you here?” He finally asked, his voice raw. “I haven’t seen you in…in…why are you here?”

“They said-“ Mycroft swallowed nervously. “They said you were attacked, badly. Sherlock…they said they found evidence of sexual assault. There were traces of…on your chest and fingerprints on your hips.”

All the colour drained from Mycroft’s face as he was too embarrassed to describe what the doctors told him. Sherlock’s eyes shot toward him as memory jumbled together in his confused mind. Then he remembered Victor’s soft moans as their bodies pushed together, and he tensed up, feeling stupid.

“That was Victor,” he whispered. “No one attacked me…not like that, I mean. We had sex, right before…that was Victor.”

Except the fingerprints, cuts, and bruises, but  he didn’t have the stomach to consider them right now.

Mycroft’s eyes went wide as relief washed over his face. Colour returned to his skin, and his grip loosened on the rail of the bed. He looked like he might burst into tears.

“You thought…?” Sherlock struggled to put it all together. Did this mean Mycroft would have actually cared if _that_ happened to him?

“I didn’t know what to think,” Mycroft admitted quietly. “You look terrible, Sherlock. They’re running tests right now, but just the signs on your body had the doctor concerned.”

He was sure his own face was blood red with embarrassment, and even Mycroft looked uncomfortable. Sex was possibly the very last thing he wanted to talk about with his brother.

“They haven’t gotten the test results back,” Mycroft explained. “When they do, they’ll know what happened. That part of the story’s just a misunderstanding. The rest…someone _attacked_ you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared up at him helplessly.

“I know,” he replied softly. “I was there.”

Mycroft’s eyes fell to the floor and he remained silent, as though too guilty to dare to say anything else. Sherlock didn’t mind.

The door to the room flew open, and Sherlock’s heart fluttered when Mr. Trevor rushed in. His face was reeked with sweat and he was breathing hard; his eyes were bloodshot, like he had been crying.

“Oh god,” Mr. Trevor stammered when he saw him. “Sherlock, I’m sorry-“

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock mumbled.

He looked away, ashamed to be seen like this. He could see in the mirror above the sink how horrible he looked. A stitched scar from the knife cut into the skin beneath one eye. The same eye was black and nearly swollen shut, which explained the fact that his vision was becoming blurry. He looked down at his body for the first time to find that his ribs were patched up and the skin around them was bruised and tender.

Ignoring him, Mr. Trevor swooped down and scooped him into a hug. Sherlock hugged him back, absent-minded and feeling awkward to be the center of attention like this. When Mr. Trevor pulled away his eyes fell on Mycroft for the first time ever, and he looked him up and down- clearly disproving.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” He spat.

Sherlock smirked. Mycroft stared the man straight in the eye as he replied:

“Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother.”

Mr. Trevor’s eyes narrowed, and Sherlock was pleased to see that he wasn’t intimidated.

“I haven’t met you before,” Mr. Trevor announced simply. He lifted a hand to shake. “I’m Sherlock’s guardian.”

His words shook with a fury that turned the room cold, and Mycroft’s eyes turned to ice.

“Guardian?” Mycroft spat, turning to Sherlock.

“Yes,” Mr. Trevor shot. “Sherlock does not have a family reliable, responsible, and loving enough to take care of him, so I have taken him in. Me, and my son, and my daughter.”

“Your son?” Mycroft asked. The smallest of grins peered from Mycroft’s lips, and it just seemed so inappropriate that Sherlock was nearly sick again. “Sherlock’s boyfriend.”

Mycroft’s eyes twinkled, and Sherlock wanted to melt into the ground. Not only did his brother not know he was gay, but Sherlock never intended for him to find out.

“Well,” Mycroft announced, “I suppose I should think you, for looking after my brother when I cannot. I mainly work overseas.”

Sherlock glared at him, but he didn’t have the energy to fight back. His body felt empty and raw, like every shred of energy had been taken from him. He secretly wished he could call a nurse for help so that he could do something about the pain returning to his face and the fact that he couldn’t seem to control his breathing.

“It’s my pleasure,” Mr. Trevor said, shaking his hand.

Mycroft turned back to him, and Sherlock was surprised and confused to realize he didn’t want him to go.

“You don’t have to go,” Sherlock whispered.

“Clearly you have people to look after you now,” Mycroft said, eyes narrowing in on him, “you’re in good hands. Unfortunately, I have work to get back to. Get well soon, Sherlock.”

When he disappeared, Sherlock felt tears rushed to his eyes again, and he was actually grateful when Mr. Trevor slipped him into another embrace.

“I don’t know about him, but my entire world stopped when I heard what happened,” Mr. Trevor whispered. “Sherlock-“

“I wasn’t raped,” Sherlock said quickly. “Victor and I-“

His cheeks turned pink again, and a small, sympathetic smile crossed Mr. Trevor’s face.

“I know,” he replied. “Victor told me, and the doctors talked to him shortly after he woke up. He was horrified to hear of the misunderstanding.”

“We were so irresponsible,” Sherlock sobbed, clinging to him tightly. It felt so much like holding onto a true _father_ that he didn’t want to let go. “If we weren’t messing around we could have been near a phone. We could have grabbed a weapon-“

“Don’t,” Mr. Trevor interrupted. “No ‘what ifs’. Trust me, you’ll drive yourself insane. It sounds like Victor tried to do the right thing, and of course when you heard him screaming you would want to help. And frankly the thought of you two going after armed robbers with weapons terrifies me. Things could have gone even worse.”

When they broke apart tears were flowing freely, and that’s when Sherlock looked around and noticed something was missing.

“Where’s Hailey?” He asked.

Mr. Trevor smiled kindly, as though pleased Sherlock had asked.

“She’s with my sister,” he explained. “I didn’t want her to see you guys like this, not yet, and I definitely don’t want her to see the state the house is in.”

“Oh god-“

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, holding up a hand. “I’m much more worried about the state you two are in. I’m glad you’re okay, all things considered, but you were beaten, badly.”

His eyes fell to his hands as he asked quietly:

“How’s Victor?”

He thought of his boyfriend, trembling and afraid on the ground, and how pathetic he felt not being able to help.

“His ribs are a bit bruised and sore, and he has a minor head wound,” Mr. Trevor admitted. “He’s shaken up pretty badly. The doctor gave him something to help him sleep and calm the shock. He’s going to come in and offer you the same. It will help, I promise you. You need to rest, okay? I’ll be here, for both of you, but for now you just need to rest. Are you comfortable?”

He hadn’t considered being comfortable. The bed was a simple, hard, A&E bed, and machines beeped in a steady rhythm around him. His throat was raw, his limbs trembled a bit, and cold goosebumps danced across his skin. His chest was too tight and when he looked up at Mr. Trevor again, his vision danced before his eyes, making him even more dizzy and nauseated.

_I think I’m in shock,_ he realized, _the proper, medical version of shock._

“I think I should see the doctor.”

Mr. Trevor looked like he might be sick himself, but made to flee the room and call for a doctor.

His body rolled to the side, allowing him to once again examine his own array of cuts and bruises in the mirror. Mr. Trevor and Mycroft were right: he looked terrible. His entire face looked swollen.

But more than anything, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Mycroft said.

“Can you make sure they don’t call my dad?” He called, just before the door could close.

Mr. Trevor remained silent for a long time, obviously wondering what that meant, but at last he nodded.

“I can do that,” Mr. Trevor said. “Rest, okay? You and Victor can see each other in the morning. I’ll get the doctor.”

Sherlock nodded and close his eyes to block out the tears threatening to overflow. The door closed quietly as Mr. Trevor disappeared. When the nurse came in right after to check his vitals and offer him something to help him sleep and calm down, he was all too grateful.

This time, he embraced the darkness.

 

It was morning when he woke up again, and Sherlock was surprised how heavy his body felt compared to last night. Squirming, he fought the hospital blankets covering him and sat up straight. His eyes danced around the room, taking in the closed curtains, the cup of water and hospital tray of breakfast waiting for him, and Victor, slumped against the same hospital chair Mycroft was in the night before. With a hand wrapped tightly around his waist and a lumpy hospital-issued pillow behind his back, Victor didn’t exactly look comfortable. Sherlock was torn between waking him and letting him get the rest he knew Victor needed.

He decided to turn instead to the mirror to check on his injuries. His black eye looked somehow darker, and when he touched it he gasped at how tender it was. From experience, he knew it would get worse before it got better, and he hid his hand under the blanket to fight the urge to touch the scars and bruises. As he relaxed back into the pillows he flinched at the brush of his sore neck against the fabric. The pain was almost like whiplash. A harsh gasp escaped when he moved his neck to test the pain, and Victor stirred awake.

“Hey Sherlock,” Victor said quietly, rubbing his eyes as he adjusted to being awake. “Sorry, I was just-“

“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock said. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why aren’t you in a room?”

Victor winced in pain as he sat up, and he must have done it too quickly because he grasped at his stomach.

“I’m fine,” Victor mumbled, “just a bit bruised up. You don’t need a hospital room for that.”

“I’m just bruised up,” Sherlock pointed out.

Eyes wide, Victor stared at him, and Sherlock realized there was something he hadn’t been told.

“Sherlock you passed out at the house,” Victor stated. “You were out for a while. You have bruises on your neck from where that bastard choked you. I was afraid you had a concussion. Your breathing was all…weird. And then of course there was the whole mix-up of-“

“I know,” Sherlock cut in sharply. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of _that_ happening. “I feel fine though.”

Victor smirked.

“That’s the morphine, Sherlock.”

Oh.

Shuffling to his feet, Victor stumbled over to him and grabbed the rails of the bed. When he looked up he looked tired, but grinned anyway.

“I’m just a bit sore,” Victor admitted. “That bastard got my back good-“

Sherlock didn’t let him finished. He grabbed Victor’s face and smashed their lips together, trapping them in the kiss he’d ached for since Victor left the bed the night before. His hand slipped around Victor’s back before they pulled away.

“Let me see,” he whispered.

Whimpering, Victor turned so that he could get a good look at his bruises. He gasped a bit as Sherlock pulled his shirt up enough to see the shower of black and blue bruises. Victor’s eyes squeezed shut tightly, clearly out of shame.

“Oh god,” Sherlock whispered. “Did you tell the doctor about this?”

“He saw them when they brought me in,” Victor said. “They’re just bruises, Sherlock, they’ll heal.”

“Are you in pain?” Sherlock asked softly.

With a tired sigh, Victor let his shirt down again and turned back to him. Leaning down, he planted his lips on Sherlock’s again for a long, gentle, kiss.

“I’m fine,” he murmured when they broke apart.

He kept his hand in Sherlock’s as he pulled up a chair.

“I’m more worried about you,” Victor said.

His hand crept up to Sherlock’s neck, and he winced as Victor brushed his fingers across the thick bruising.

“Christ,” Victor whispered. His eyes fell to the floor, and he drew in a deep breath before admitting: “I was terrified, Sherlock. The moment I saw the gun I just froze and…thank you. Thank you for coming after me. You’re a stupid twat for doing so…but thank you.”

When he looked up again, Victor was beaming, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to smile a little.

And suddenly, he felt comfortable enough to admit what was really going on.

“It made me think of my dad and the way he used to come after me,” he confessed. Victor’s eyes went wide, but he let Sherlock continue: “I think I was having flashbacks. It was _weird_.”

Their eyes met, and Victor swallowed nervously, like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. Sherlock knew Victor was clueless when it came to helping him with his family problems, and he hated seeing him look so guilty just because he didn’t know what to do.  

“Do you know what they wanted?” He asked, hoping a change of subject would help.

Victor shrugged and leaned even closer to him.

“They didn’t even take the money,” Victor pointed out. “That man made me face the wall and close my eyes when he opened the safe, but it sounded like they took out a plastic baggie full of something instead.”

A knock on the door interrupted Sherlock before he could reply, and Hailey Trevor flew into the room. Her arms were around Victor before either of them could blink, and Mr. Trevor smiled down at them both.

“She wanted to come see you both,” he explained. “Victor, you need to finish filling out your paperwork, and Sherlock if you’re up for it your doctor said they can discharge you tonight.”

All it took was one sweeping glance of the hospital room, the wires connected to him, and the suspicious-looking toast and biscuits by his side to make him nod in agreement. Truthfully, he was reluctant to give up the relief of the morphine, but being trapped in the hospital only made him think of all that was _wrong_ with him.

“But he looks awful,” Victor protested, jumping to his feet with his sister in his arms. “Dad, he was so badly hurt-“

“I know,” Mr. Trevor said, holding up a hand in defense. “But we can look after him. They want you both on pain meds and bed rest for the next couple of days. Your aunt Sharon has offered to let us all stay while the investigation is going on and the house gets cleaned up. And guys, you know the police will want your statements.”

He exchanged glances with his boyfriend, who looked as worried and nervous as he did.

“What did they want, Dad?” Victor asked, completely ignoring what his father had said.

Mr. Trevor stiffened and his eyes turned cold. He threw a quick glance to Sherlock, which confused him even more- was there something going on here that he was supposed to understand?

“I’m not sure, son,” Mr. Trevor admitted. “They were just criminals.”

“Criminals with guns and knives,” Victor shot under his breath.

Hailey buried her face into his shoulder, and even from the bed Sherlock could see that she was trembling.

“Victor-“ Mr. Trevor warned.

“I know!” Victor shot, storming toward the door with Hailey still in tow. “Where’s the bloody paperwork?”

As Victor and his sister left, Mr. Trevor turned to him.

“Are you sure you feel alright to leave?” He asked gently.

Sherlock nodded, and he was offered a kind, supportive, smile.

“We’ll take good care of you, you know.”

He nodded again.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 reviews!!!!! THANKS SO MUCH!!!! I never imagined people would enjoy the story this much! Thanks for your support all the way through!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: character death, suicide. This refers to what "happened" to Mr. Trevor in the past, but just in case I thought I would put a warning.

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, and his heart stopped when he realized that he was lying in a bed next to John. It took him a moment to remember how he got here as his mind tried to wrap around the fact that _I made out with my flat mate_ , but when Victor’s voice screamed for him a second time he leapt out of bed. John’s eyes were open wide, but when he tried to get up he groaned when his body prevented him from moving.

“What the fuck,” John mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

“Stay here,” Sherlock instructed.

“What else am I going to do?”

He stopped before he got to the door and turned to gaze at his friend. John still looked tired, he looked ill and malnourished, but at the same time he looked so incredibly _handsome_.

 _How have I never seen it before?_ He asked himself.

“SHERLOCK!” Victor cried again.

“Go,” John said quietly.

Nodding, he felt guilty as he slipped away to see what the shouting was all about.

It didn’t take him long.

Mycroft was standing in the entry-way with Mr. Trevor.

Victor was staring at his estranged father, wild-eyed. He was being held back by his sister, who was nearly in tears as she desperately kept her brother from going after their father. In the madness Mr. Trevor stood perfectly still, breathing heavily as he stared at his son.

“You knew,” Victor finally spat, rounding on Sherlock. “You fucking bastard, you _knew_!”

Mr. Trevor blinked, like on instinct he wanted to lecture his son for swearing, but he remained silent. Sherlock glanced to Mycroft for help; he could never tell when he had permission to share what his brother considered secret.

“Your father was taken as well,” Mycroft explained, “he’s hurt.”

“He’s dead!” Victor screamed. “My father is _dead_!”

“Victor, please!” Hailey pleaded, tugging at her older brother’s hand. “Let him explain-“

“I don’t want him to explain!” Victor roared.

He was glaring at Sherlock now, and he swallowed, unable to help but to think of their fight that day at the funeral home.

“How could you keep this from me?” Victor said. His eyes were bloodshot from the effort of holding back tears. “How long have you known?”

“Just since the kidnapping,” Sherlock said. “He was taken too. Mycroft’s right, he’s hurt.”

“Good!” Victor spat, spinning back around to his father. Mr. Trevor visibly tensed but stood his ground. Instead of storming toward him, Victor took Hailey in his arms and held her close. “You have no idea how much _you_ hurt _us_. No idea. I _raised_ her. She’s mine, and it’s really fucking hard to try to be a parent when you’re still in Uni. But in the end I was more of a father to her than you ever were because I never left!”

“Victor!” Hailey trembled. She squirmed out of his hands and went to stand by her father. “I love you, Victor, you know that. You were a brilliant guardian, but I’ve always missed him. I wasn’t mad at him, like you-“

“He made us think that he killed himself!” Victor screamed. “It’s sick!”

“I know!” Hailey exclaimed. Sherlock blinked, taken aback. He had never actually heard her raise her voice like that. “I know, and it was horrible what he did. But just listen to him!”

“No,” Victor’s voice fell to a whisper as he spun around again. “No.”

He made to storm toward the back of the safe house, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. Their eyes met, and his heart fluttered a bit when he saw how hurt Victor really was. His ex-boyfriend looked at him like he meant nothing, like he was just as bad as the rest, and that pained him more than anything.

“I’m confused too,” he admitted. “You have no idea how angry I was when I saw him in that cellar, alive. He did it to protect you and your sister. I still don’t know the full story myself.”

Victor took an abrupt step toward him so that their faces were just inches apart.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you know?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly in consideration, and thought back to nearly a decade ago.

_Mr. Trevor kept him off cases for a week after the robbery. He and Victor had become even closer since then, spending most of their time staying in the same bed and trying to wrap their minds around what happened. After a week his own bruises were finally fading, they were back in the Trevors’ home, and he was able to walk around without jumping at every odd noise. Sherlock only admitted to himself that he was wary about going back to crime scenes after the robbery, but Mr. Trevor seemed to have confidence in him so he went along._

_Thankfully, his first day back was slow. Mr. Trevor took some time to drive him around town, pointing out typical areas where he saw the most drug activity happen and recalling particularly complicated cases. Just as the sun went down they pulled up to the abandoned building the visited during their last case._

_“Did something else happen?” Sherlock asked, recalling the sketchiness of the fake business and its back room._

_“No, I just need to check on something, but you can stay in the car.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes wondered around the street they were parked on. They were by no means in a good area of town, but he didn’t want to get in the way._

_“Sure,” he replied._

_He sank into the passenger seat as Mr. Trevor disappeared into the building. When the detective was safely inside the building Sherlock peered out the window, looking out for any sign of what might be going on._

_It didn’t take long for him to notice something odd. Two men stormed down the alley adjacent to the building, heading for the side door. He could see the knives sticking out of the trousers of the first man in the gun in the pockets of the second. His heart began racing as his hands reached for the door handle and quietly pushed the door open. Carefully, he crept around side of the building to where the door was still cracked open._

_Mr. Trevor was in there, and he was talking with the men, but he wasn’t interrogating them or arresting them. No, they were shaking hands. The detective was smiling as one of the men passed something to him- a tiny baggie, which could only be filled with one thing…_

_Sherlock panicked and turned to flee back to the car. He was breathing hard as he threw himself back into the passenger seat and sank down, trying to comprehend what he just saw. Mr. Trevor returned only moments later, breathing unevenly himself and sweating miserably. He quickly shred his coat jacket and started the car._

_“Everything alright?” Sherlock shot._

_Mr. Trevor didn’t answer as he pressed down hard on the gas, sending them flying back toward the main road._

_“I’ve got to go back to the precinct, and then I’ll drop you off at home,” he announced._

_It was the only thing Mr. Trevor said to him for the rest of the ride._

_He was left alone back at the precinct to listen into the detective getting chewed out by a superintendent who was apparently being brought in to work with the unit. It seemed like the case had hit the news big time, and the force was taking a lot of heat for it. It was strange, watching the only father figure he ever had being lectured like a child, but he felt so betrayed and hurt that he was almost happy to see it._

_He tried to calm down. He tried to tell himself he was seeing things, or that he wasn’t understanding things properly, but then why did Mr. Trevor look so anxious when he got back into the car? Sherlock thought back to the robbers, who were so desperate to break in for something that wasn’t money._

_Drugs._

_That’s what the break in was about. That’s what all of this was about. The very thing Victor’s family saved him from was the very thing Mr. Trevor was sneaking around and becoming involved with._

_At last Mr. Trevor trudged out of the office, looking like he had taken a beating._

_“I’ve got to file some paperwork,” he sighed. “Mind hanging around?”_

_Sherlock shook his head, not daring to say anything. Mr. Trevor reached over to squeeze his shoulder before slipping away to his own office. He turned back to the superintendent, contemplating what to do, but he had to think fast when the man left the office and walked right past him-“_

_“Sir!” He called. His heart stopped. It was hard to breathe. The man turned and looked down at him like he was the strangest thing to have ever walked into the building. “Can I talk to you?”_

_He was sure his cheeks were burning red. He felt like a kid, too afraid to tell their parents something. The room felt entirely too hot as he was led back into the office, and he tugged at his collar in hopes of being able to breathe a bit easier._

_“It’s about the case, Sir,” Sherlock explained. “Something happened while we were on patrol.”_

_“Patrol?” The Superintendent snickered. A nameplate on the desk read “Christians”; he had apparently been placed in this office for the duration of the case. “Of course. One of the biggest drug cases in this town’s recent history, and DCI Trevor is out on patrol. Well then, on with it, what did you see?”_

_For a long time Sherlock couldn’t speak. He kept swallowing and opening his mouth, hoping words would come out, but something in his mind kept pulling him back, warning him that once he said something he could never take it back. Once he said something everything was going to change, possibly forever._

_Maybe it was because of the irritated sigh from Christians, but at last he took a deep breath and confessed everything._

_When he arrived back at the Trevors’ home he stumbled into the bathroom and collapsed on the floor. He never threw up, but his stomach did somersaults as he leaned over the toilet rim and tried to teach himself how to breathe again. All that ran through his mind was:_ What have I done? I’ve ruined everything. _He didn’t even hear Victor come in until a warm hand was around his neck._

_“Sherlock?” Victor asked quietly._

_With wary eyes he looked up. His skin felt clammy, and despite the fact it was one of the hottest days of the summer he was freezing. Fingers danced up and down his arms to comfort him; it only made him feel guiltier._

_“Migrane,” he lied. “I’m just a bit nauseous, that’s all.”_

_“Want something to take for it?”_

_He shook his head._

_“I just want to rest, okay?” He pleaded._

_He could tell Victor didn’t believe him, but just being around Victor made him feel even worse. The thought that he could have possibly just ruined the lives of everyone in the Trevor family made him want to run away and hide. He couldn’t be here when they found out, they would hate them._

They’re the only people who have ever loved me, and I just betrayed them.

_Suddenly soft lips were on his, and he knew Victor wasn’t going anywhere. A hand wrapped around his neck while the other rests gently on his face. They broke apart and Sherlock shuddered at the loss of contact._

_“I got a flat,” Victor announced._

_Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he raised them to meet Victor’s grin._

_“It’s close to school. It’s cheaper than living on campus, and it’s a decent building. I thought we could live there during holidays too.”_

_His heart leapt._

_“We?”_

_Victor’s grin widened._

_“Of course,” he replied. “Will you move in with me? We practically live together already, and there’s a nice Sherlock-sized imprint on my bed. I mean, you have your own room if you want it. No pressure-“_

_“Yes!”_

_No!_

_“Really?”_

_Sherlock nodded._

_“Yes,” he said quietly. No, I’m an idiot! “I want to. Have you told your father?”_

_“He helped me get it,” Victor admitted, “we talked about it at the beginning of the summer. We agreed that next summer I’ll try to work full-time and start paying some bills. It will help him out with money, and he says it will teach me good life lessons…or whatever. So what do you think?”_

Badideabadideabadidea!

_“Okay.”_

_Hands grabbed at his face and pulled him in close. Soon his lips were trapped together with Victor’s in a sloppy kiss, and he wasn’t sure the day could get any worse. When they broke apart, Victor kept his hand around Sherlock’s neck. Breathing hard, he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. Their lips were still only inches apart when his boyfriend finally whispered:_

_“I love you.”_

_The day just got worse._

_The world stopped. Somewhere nearby a pipe began dripping, and the sound of water falling to the ground was as brutal as thunder bursting right outside the window._

_“Sherlock?” Victor asked. “You’re not breathing.”_

_“I…” he couldn’t find his voice. The walls were closing in around him, and he felt like he might pass out at any moment. “I-“_

_“Shit,” Victor muttered, “too soon. I’m sorry Sherlock. Don’t feel like you have to say anything. I’m an idiot. It’s been a rough summer, and I treated you like shit most of the time. I just…I’m just sorry, alright? I just want us to be together.”_

I do too…but we can’t. Not now.

_“I love you too.”_

I’m an idiot.

_Victor beamed, and they kissed again, long and hard. He could tell by the quickened pace of his boyfriend’s breathing and the unsteady rhythm of his heart pounding against his chest that he was already becoming aroused._

_“I still feel sick,” Sherlock said quickly, before Victor could get any ideas._

_“Right,” Victor said. Disappointment melted on his face as he backed away. “Is it okay if I lay down with you?”_

_He just wanted to be alone, but he at the same thing he didn’t want to start letting Victor down too soon. So instead he nodded and decided he would just wait, wait and see what the fate of the Trevor family would be._

_Sherlock didn’t think life could get any more uncomfortable as what he suffered through at the beginning of that summer, but the end was even worse. Nothing more was said about the case or the drugs, but he was pulled off of helping out on Mr. Trevor’s team. He was told it was because the case was getting too dangerous. The media was constantly watching the precinct, and Mr. Trevor warned that having a university-aged student wondering around the crime scenes would be bad on a number of levels._

_A few weeks after Victor asked him to move into his flat the two of them were on their way back to school. Those few weeks were unbearably tense around the house, with Mr. Trevor working double shifts most days a week and Victor trying to figure out how to set up their flat. He felt a little better when they were on the train out of town: at least school gave him reasons to ignore Victor, with classes and studying._

_“I thought we might go into town and get some groceries first thing,” Victor said as they waited for their train. He turned to Sherlock. “Can you cook?”_

_An honest laugh escaped him for the first time in weeks._

_“Have you ever seen me cook?” Sherlock pointed out._

_“Excuse me, Mr. Trevor?”_

_They both jumped at the sudden voice, and Victor practically looked offended at the greeting of ‘Mr’._

_“D.I. Greenly,” Victor replied. “Why are you here?”_

_The young D.I. swallowed nervously and glanced around, as though he wished he brought back up._

_“I knew you were leaving for school today so I thought I might be able to catch you before the train leaves. I wanted to talk to you, personally.”_

_Victor’s face went grey, and it felt like a stone fell in his own stomach. Something was wrong, he realized. Something was incredibly wrong._

_This is where it starts, he thought._

_“Can I talk to you in private?” The D.I. asked._

_Nodding, Victor threw a worried glance toward Sherlock._

_Once they were a respectable distance away, the D.I. immediately placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder as he quietly talked to him about something. Judging by D.I.’s soft eyes and worried expression it was something deeply personal. It didn’t take him long to see just how personal when Victor nearly collapsed, leaving the D.I. to hold him up and his head to fall forward._

_Victor immediately shrugged away from the D.I. and began to sprint back toward Sherlock. Sherlock caught him before he could fall to the ground._

_“Victor?” He demanded._

_He tried to prepare himself for the worst. Maybe it wasn’t the drugs- maybe the house caught fire, or Hailey was hurt, or a relative was in the hospital._

_Blood-shot eyes met his as Victor looked up, and in a small, icy, voice, his boyfriend explained:_

_“My father’s dead.”_

_Sherlock stepped back, simply to prevent himself from falling forward. Victor’s hand grasped tightly around his arms, and he wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to support._

_“My father’s dead,” Victor said again. His boyfriend was crying now, openly crying in the middle of the train station, with people watching and Sherlock holding onto him for dear life. “My father’s dead. My father’s dead, Sherlock. My father’s dead!”_

_“No,” Sherlock whispered._

_They both fell to the ground in unison. He ignored the other people. He ignored the trains coming in and the fact that one of them was theirs. He ignored the bags falling to the ground around them, with their school supplies tumbling out. None of that mattered anymore._

_“He’s gone,” Victor whispered. His eyes were filled with tears when he looked up to Sherlock again: “Sherlock he…he told me that…he told me that my father…Sherlock, he killed himself.”_

_Victor broke into uncontrollable sobs, and Sherlock worried he might be sick right there in the middle of the train station. Blood rushed to his head, his insides threatened to pop out, and tears stung his eyes as he tried to register what Victor said._

_“No,” he simply whispered._

_It couldn’t be true. Not Mr. Trevor- not the only fucking father he had ever truly had. He knew it would be bad, whatever happened after his confession, but he would have never expected this. It just didn’t make sense…_

_“He’s dead,” Victor sobbed._

_Throwing his arms around Sherlock, he knocked the wind out of him as he pulled him into a tight embrace._

_“He’s dead!” Victor sobbed against his shoulder. “He’s dead, Sherlock, he’s dead. Oh my god…oh my god, he’s dead.”_

_The words echoed in his ear over and over in an ever-lasting rhythm, but Sherlock still couldn’t accept it. He pulled Victor closer, so that their tears mingled together and their hot breaths desperately fought for the same air. It felt good to have him close, but with every sob Sherlock found it harder and harder to accept that this was happening._

Sherlock looked up to Victor, hoping that someone he had opened his eyes to see how much all of that affected him. Instead, Victor only looked more disgusted.

“No,” Victor announced. “No. He’s not alive. He’s dead. I can’t…I can’t do this-“

Victor made to storm out the door, but his father grabbed him by the arm at the last second.

“Victor-“

An ear-piercing _slap_ filled the room, and Hailey screamed. Father and son glared at each other as a red bruise sprinkled across Mr. Trevor’s face where his son hit him.

“Oh god,” Victor whispered. His own hands flew to his face, and it was like the slap was what he needed to prove it wasn’t a ghost that stood before him but a human being. His father. “Oh god.”

“Son, please,” Mr. Trevor begged softly. “Please believe me when I say I did it to protect you. They were coming after you and your sister. I had no choice. I love you so much that I had to let you go, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it. I don’t want you to forgive me for it, but I want you to try to understand, I want to explain.”

“There’s a spare room, downstairs, if you wish to talk in private,” Mycroft offered.

 _Downstairs?_ Sherlock thought, looking around for some kind of sign that there was another level.

Victor simply nodded and followed his father back out into the entry-way. As Sherlock looked after them he wished he could be there for Victor. He wished it could be like old times, where they could hold each other close and suddenly things would be okay. But it wasn’t just his relationship with John standing in the way of that- it was everything. Everything was different, and he could never go back to how things were. Accepting that never did get easier.

“Thank you for being here,” Hailey suddenly whispered. She embraced him in a soft hug, and again he had to admire Victor for how grown-up and brilliant his sister turned out to be. “Can I meet John?”

She grinned as they broke apart, but Sherlock didn’t feel up to it.

“He’s resting,” he said, “I- I should go check on him.”

Breaking away from the living room was like a breath of fresh air. John really was asleep when he entered the room again, but it didn’t stop him from slipping in bed beside him. Gently, he wrapped his arms around his friend and held him close, breathing in the warmth of his body. His eyes fell shut and a single tear slipped through as his body finally began to break down/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the long wait between chapters!!! There's really no excuse, but since we're getting very close to the end I want to make sure these last few chapters are perfect. I want to make sure nothing's left out and that this story ends as strongly as it began. Please let me know what you think, and think you for all of your support!


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, gun violence

Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he checked himself out in the mirror. His suit was one of Victor’s, and it didn’t fit quite right in the legs but the jacket was sharp. He found the shoes at a second-hand clothing shop and his tie was one of Mr. Trevors…one Victor found and asked him to wear. The past few days had been some of the hardest days he had been through since his mother past away, and seeing Victor go through all these emotions only plagued him with the horrors of that year.

When he noticed his boyfriend slip into restroom him he stopped, and for a moment they just stared at each other through the mirror. Their eyes were both red with shadows underneath. Victor hadn’t been able to sleep a wink, and Sherlock stayed up, talking him through it all. Now, as they stood in the funeral home restroom waiting for the service to begin, Victor’s face was completely grey. His eyes were vacant and so unfamiliar. Sherlock felt his blood run cold; he was beginning to worry Victor would just never be the same again.

“Hey,” Sherlock greeted quietly.

“Hey.”

Victor kicked at the carpet as he stepped into the room. He stopped directly behind Sherlock; their eyes stayed connected in the mirror. Part of him expected arms to wrap around his waist, seeking comfort, but Victor just stood there frozen with his hands tucked in his pockets.

“I spoke to one of the inspectors Dad worked with.” Victor said. “He actually came here drunk, believe it or not. He’s real torn up; he was apparently a good friend of Dad’s. I guess he didn’t realize I still don’t know what happened because he told me something funny. He told me Dad was working on a case, a case that I guess had gotten pretty dangerous. He said Dad got caught up in it…the criminals, the drugs, all of it. He told me my father was a good man, that he would never do anything bad on purpose. He told me there must be kind of explanation, some kind of secret assignment we will never know about because my father’s dead. He told me my father was about to be placed on probation because of this. There was going to be a trial and everything. So I guess Dad felt like his life was falling about. He was scared, he was nervous, and God I wish I could have told him it would all work out. I wish I could have told him how much I love him, no matter what happened. Because, you see, I know my father’s a good man. My father’s the _best_.”

He drew in a deep breath and took a moment to step back and secure the restroom door. Sherlock swallowed nervously as he realized what was going on: Victor _knew_.

And he knew right then and there that things would never be the same.

“But I guess not everyone had that kind of faith in him,” Victor went on. Sherlock watched him through the restroom mirror, not daring to turn around. “The person who tipped him off was working with him on the case that day. Which is funny, because the only person on record working with him that day was you, Sherlock.”

Victor fell silent, letting it all hit hard. Panic raced up his throat in the form of bile, and he worried he might throw up before he had time to say anything.

“Victor, I-“

His pathetic attempt was cut off as a powerful force knocked the wind out of him. He fell forward against the sink, and he didn’t have time to breathe before hands grabbed his hair and sent his forehead tumbling into the edge of the sink. A sickening crack filled the room as his head hit the sharp fixture once, twice, three times.

It felt like his head might break open. Tears swelled up in his eyes, but as Victor let him up he could still catch the sight of blood pouring out of a nasty cut. His chest stung, his face already felt swollen, and he couldn’t breathe. Victor didn’t seem to mind as he wrapped and arm around his neck, cutting off his breath just enough to stun him. Then he was suddenly flying into the wall. His arms crashed into the drywall limply, and he turned just in time as Victor rushed toward him.

“Victor!” He cried as the entire weight of him crushed him against the wall.

“You bastard!” Victor hissed. His arm was around Sherlock’s neck again, leaving him gasping for air. He drifted in and out of unconsciousness, and part of him just wanted to go. He couldn’t face this, but he knew he couldn’t _lose_ this either. He couldn’t lose Victor. “You fucking bastard. You stayed in our home for months. You _fucked_ me. You joked around with my sister, you worked with my father. We…you and I, we…god Sherlock it was _brilliant_. But it wasn’t, was it? It was a lie. You fucking bastard, you were so distraught with your own family that you had to bring all that fucking drama into mine. You couldn’t just be happy! You don’t know how to be happy. You just had to ruin my life, didn’t you?!”

Victor was screaming by now, and he couldn’t help but to hope someone would hear. Blood ran down his white dress shirt now, ruining Mr. Trevor’s tie. Victor seemed to notice and wasted no time tearing the tie off and bundling up in his hands.

“You sick bastard!” Victor spat into his ear. “What if he wasn’t even guilty? Did you even think about that? Did you even stop to fucking think?!”

On the last word he was thrown down to the floor, and he couldn’t help it when a sob escaped him as Victor’s shoe crashed down against his head, pinning him there. Victor bashed his head into the floor a few good times before thrusting his shoe into Sherlock’s back, his side, his hips. He curled up with one hand over his head and one over his ribs to try to protect himself. He felt so helpless, but even worse, he felt like he deserved it. If only the pain didn’t feel so familiar.

“You just stayed with me, thinking I would never find out!” Victor screamed. His shoe finally found Sherlock’s ribs, and he cried out in pain as the kicks just kept coming. His only relief was when Victor fell to the floor to turn him around. Their eyes met, and Sherlock never realized Victor’s could be filled with so much hate and violence. He flashbacked to his own father, on top of him just like this, and he nearly threw up.

He didn’t get a chance as a fist went flying across his jaw and nose. Another crack and his nose broke. He bit back a scream as he grabbed at his nose and watched the blood pour over his fingers.

“You fucking sick bastard!” Victor exclaimed through tears. “I fucking hate you!”

A sudden _click_ made the entire world stop.

Mr. Trevor’s old service weapon was pointed at his chest, and suddenly he really couldn’t breathe. He heaved and desperately gasped for breath as tears ran down his face, mixing with the blood. He wished he wasn’t so helpless.

“My father killed himself with this,” Victor shot, his voice hovering just above a whisper. “I knicked it from evidence. I suppose you’re going to tell on me, too? I hope it was all worth it, Holmes. I’m sure it was, what with all that money you don’t have. You’ll rot in the streets like a sodding rat, and if I ever have the unfortunate pleasure of seeing your face out there I will just laugh and shove you back into the sewers. My father is dead because of you. He killed himself. He left behind his son and daughter. I have to raise her now, you know? It was in his will. It was something we talked about, were something to ever happen to him, but it just wasn’t something I ever imagined happening. I can’t imagine how ashamed he must have been, how embarrassed, all for some stupid, pathetic little boy. I can’t imagine how afraid he must have been, or how scary it must have been to think that your own kids would understand and accept your mistakes. But you were the worst mistake of all. You don’t deserve me, and you don’t deserve my family.”

The gun was lowered closer to his chest, and Sherlock held his hands up, shaking his head frantically as he pleaded:

“Victor, no! Please don’t. Let me explain. Just let me talk-“

“We’re done talking,” Victor whispered. His face went completely pale, and Sherlock let out a loud, choked sob.

“I love you.”

Just for that moment Victor froze, and it felt like his own stomach was twisting into a dozen knots. Victor knew he was the only person he’d ever said that too-aside from his mum, of course. The confession sounded so pathetic, coming from his trembling, tear-ridden, lips, but it was his last hope. White knuckles gripped the gun tightly, but those hands were shaking like mad.

At last the gun withdrew, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the shaky sigh of relief from leaving him.

But just as he relaxed the weapon struck his face, knocking his broken nose further into despair and making his head explode into hot waves of pain. He screamed and Victor ignored him as he stepped up and simply pocketed the weapon.

Sherlock caught his breath as he was left on the ground, panting and crying. He felt completely helpless, but he knew he deserved that beating. It was the least Victor could do. As much as he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to suffer through this unbearable madness the rest of his life.

Victor casually began washing the blood from his hands. He glanced down at Sherlock through the mirror, but Sherlock ignored him as he stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

_My father used to try that on me,_ he wanted to say. But he didn’t have the nerve.  

“If you ever come near me again,” Victor began calmly, “if you ever try to get in touch with me or my sister…if you so much as ask for money or food….remember what I just did to you. It will be worse.”

He was granted one final kick in the ribs before Victor stepped over him again and left the bathroom. He locked the room from the inside so that no one could open the door were he to cry out for help, but Sherlock didn’t care. Tears ran freely down his face as he gathered himself up enough to sit against the wall. His knees hugged his chest as he rested his head, still trying to simply breathe easily. Closing his eyes, Sherlock began sobbing, and he realized he truly regretted it all.

_And alone is what I deserve._

_Present day…_

Sherlock stared at his one good, long, pale, hand as it dangled over the restroom sink. The loo inside the safe house was small, but he remembered the dwelling was really only meant for one person. Soft footsteps sounded outside the door- Victor- and Sherlock tensed up and quickly turned the water off. Two familiar knocks echoed quietly in the room, and he took a deep breath before opening the door to let Victor in.

Victor closed the door and approached him quietly, and Sherlock immediately tensed up as the familiar touch of his ex-boyfriend’s hand found an old white scar on his cheek. The scar was from Victor’s own hands, from that very same fight.

“What did you do, after that fight?” Victor asked.

He shrugged, like it had been nothing.

It had been the opposite. Being homeless was almost more frightening than living with his father. The constant uncertainty of where he would be the next night, not knowing where his next meal would come from or if he would get to eat at all, having no transportation, becoming addicted to drugs- all of it seemed like some horror story out of a movie. When he remembered that was his own life his blood ran cold, and he had to close his eyes to bring himself back down to the reality of _I’ve got John now_.

“One of the funeral staff found me and took me to the A&E,” he admitted. “From there I had enough money for a bus back to London. After that I stayed on the streets.”

Guilt flashed in Victor’s eyes before he glanced away, and it was surreal to think back to the power behind his words during that fight and the shame that seem to riddle him now. Sherlock remembered the he had just come back from speaking with his father for the first time in years, and he allowed himself to reach up and brush Victor’s arm with a comforting hand.

Victor’s eye twitched, and he knew he enjoyed the touch.

“Are you okay?” He asked Victor.

With a sigh and a shrug, Victor closed the door and fell against it.

“Don’t worry,” Victor offered with a sly grin. “I won’t beat the shit out of you. Promise.”

“I deserved it,” Sherlock whispered.

“No, you didn’t,” Victor said. He paused. “Okay, maybe a little. But Christ, I threatened to kill you! I pulled a gun on you! And I meant every word of what I said.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted, “and I deserved it.”

Victor let out a dramatic sigh and wiped a weary hand over his face.

“I just can’t believe he’s alive,” Victor said. “He explained everything to me. It all makes sense, or at least I know it should. It’s just all so surreal!”

“I know,” Sherlock said, “I thought the same when I first saw him. I was angry, Victor.”

“You had a right to be.” Their eyes met, and Victor wouldn’t ever have any idea how much it meant to hear that. “I know you and him were like father and son. I know you were in a tough situation. You did what you had to do.”

“No,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “it was a stupid thing to do. I should have at least talked to someone first.”

“You were young and afraid.”

“Don’t justify this!” Sherlock exclaimed. Victor’s eyes went wide, and he had to take a few deep breaths to calm down. “I’ve hated myself ever since for what I did to your family. I still hate myself for it. Victor…are you alright?”

Victor suddenly went very pale, and he nodded quickly even as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bathtub. Letting out a deep breath, Victor ran shaky hands through his hair and closed his eyes.

“There aren’t many places in this house to be alone,” Victor said quietly. “Do you mind?”

Sherlock shook his head. His eyes caught sight of the bandages sitting on the sink, and he blushed when he remembered he wasn’t actually wearing a shirt. His old bandages were in the trash, leaving dark black and blue bruises exposed against his ribs and stomach. His sides were still sore, but compared to what everyone else went through he didn’t have the nerve to complain about it.

“Let me help you,” Victor offered.

He grabbed the new bandages before Sherlock could respond. Keeping perfectly still, he focused a spot on the wall above Victor to distract him from the awkwardness of being touched by his ex-boyfriend.

“What did he tell you?” Sherlock asked.

Victor shrugged as he cleaned the area around the bruises. When Sherlock winced a comforting hand gently pressed against the tender spot.

“He told me everything,” Victor said, “or maybe it wasn’t everything, I don’t know. I’m sure there are things he can’t tell me. I just can’t imagine him getting caught up in something so dangerous and…frankly, scary. I can’t believe those people followed us and taunted him about it. I can’t imagine what that must have been like, as a father. I know he was in a bad situation. I know his hands were tied, but I still can’t help but to be pissed at him. He left me! He left us alone. I had to raise Hailey, I didn’t have any parents, and I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. Since then I’ve just felt so alone.”

His eyes snapped to meet Victor’s, and the room stood silent for a moment.

“At the same time what he did was amazing,” Victor whispered. Sherlock’s breath hitched as Victor tugged on the bandages to finish dressing the injury. “He was alone too. It must have been so hard- and not to mention dangerous. I want to hate him, I really do. But…I’m so glad he’s alive.”

A sob escaped him as he finally admitted how he truly felt. Sherlock hesitated at first but then finally placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing him there slightly for comfort. It wasn’t enough; Victor through himself at him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Victor whispered, “I ruined your life.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock promised. “All we can do is be happy he’s alive. We can move forward. You have your family again.”

At those words Victor sobbed again, and Sherlock could feel tears dripping onto his bare shoulders. He held Victor tightly as he himself break down while he just stood there, feeling numb.

“You don’t have to forgive him right away,” Sherlock encouraged quietly. “Or ever. But I think we both owe him another chance.”

Victor nodded and let him go. He rubbed at his tear-streaked face and let out a shaky sigh as he gathered himself together.

“My father’s alive,” Victor whispered, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

Dishes clattered in a nearby room, and a sad smile swept across Sherlock’s face.

“Believe it,” he whispered back, “he’s in the other room.”

“Victor!” Hailey suddenly screeched from nearby.

Victor smirked and continued to wipe the tears away.

“I guess we should go,” Victor sighed. “Thanks, for letting me break down on you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He reached down for his shirt and slipped it on as they stepped out of the room.

He was surprised to see Mr. Trevor, John, and even Mycroft seated at a small kitchen table. Hailey was pouring soup into bowls, and when they entered she looked up and smile.

“I made soup,” she explained.

“She cooks?” Sherlock grinned, glancing at Victor.

“She learned,” Victor shrugged.

“I had to!” Hailey said. “I got sick of pasta and pizza every night.”

Mr. Trevor stared down at his bowl of soup, and Sherlock wondered if he was the only one who noticed how uncomfortable he looked.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

He planted hand casually on John’s shoulder as he passed him to get to an empty chair. John’s eyes shot up to him, glimmering with hope. His friend sat slumped in his seat a bit, which was very unlike him. He was wearing pyjamas and his hair was a mess, but John looked happy to be out of bed.

“I thought I should sit up for a bit,” John said, “and food sounds amazing right now.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted.

His brother nodded at him as he blew over his soup to cool it down.

“I was just telling them it will be safe to return home tomorrow,” Mycroft said.

“Were they caught?” Sherlock asked. Everyone stared at him, and he realized right away that was a question he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“We’re going back to the hospital first,” John said, breaking the silence.

Sherlock turned to him, but John ignored him by turning to the soup.

“What?” He snapped. “I’m not going to the hospital!”

“We need to get checked out again, Sherlock!” John said. “I need to have new x-rays, and you need to get your ribs and arm checked out again. Plus I’m worried you’re dehydrated again.”

Their eyes met, and he was moved to see how sincerely concerned John was. He licked his lips; John was right, he hadn’t been taking care of himself like he should.

“We can go home after that?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Something flashed in John’s eyes that might as well have screamed _yes, and have sex_. His heart leapt, and suddenly he was more than ready to get out of the safe house.

“A car will be by for all of you tomorrow,” Mycroft said. “Victor, I’ll trust that you make your decision by then.”

Sherlock looked up at his ex, who kept his eyes glued to the table.

“Yes,” Victor mumbled.

He frowned but didn’t ask. He only wondered why Victor didn’t tell him what was going on while they were talking.

“Hospital, Sherlock,” John scolded.

Their eyes met again, and beneath the table John’s sock-covered foot brushed ever-so-slightly against his. The touch hit him with a bolt of electricity, and he only managed to nod and reply:

“Yes, Dr. Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting very close to the end :( There will only be one or two chapters, depending on if I feel like the end should be stretched out into an extra chapter. I've really enjoyed writing this story! I'm sorry it took so long to finish. Many real-life situations came up, and I got caught up in my other fic, but I really do love writing this story. I hope you have enjoyed reading it! Thanks so much for your support!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you guys were (understandably) concerned about Victor being way too much of a jerk toward Sherlock- you were one step ahead of me! It's Victor's turn to really explain himself now.

“One step, then another, okay?” He said to John softly.

“I’ve got it, Sherlock!”

John had been snapping at him all morning as they prepared to leave the safe house. His flatmate was in denial of how weak he still was and had refused his help all morning. Now John had no choice as Sherlock helped lift him off the bed and onto his feet. A wheelchair was waiting for him, and John looked sick as his eyes fell on it for the first time.

“It’s okay, John,” he reassured.

Letting out a shaky breath, John finally admitted:

“It’s not okay! Christ, I feel like this is pay back for pretending my leg got shot. It’s going to be awhile longer until I’m like new again. What am I going to do back at the flat? I can’t even climb stairs!”

“You weren’t pretending that your leg was shot, and you can use my room.”

“Will you be in it?”

Their eyes met, and Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment as the comment went straight to his groin. His friend had made more than a few references to what would soon be their first time; he just hoped he could live up to his expectations. What if they went that far, what if they did _that_ , and they realized this was just all wrong?

What if John was disappointed?

“Let’s get you in the car,” Sherlock said, “whatever you need, I’m here, alright? It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Yeah, says someone with a fucked up arm and bruised ribs. We’re both pretty helpless, Sherlock.”

“Then Mrs. Hudson will just have to help up out,” he smirked.

“Yeah, she’ll love that!” John teased.

“Come on,” he said, “one foot, then the other.”

John nodded and closed his eyes tightly for a brief moment. Sherlock studied how he built up the courage to do this, and he wondered what John’s trick was. When he opened his eyes again he seemed to be ‘back to normal’, and he didn’t make another complaint as they quietly stumbled over to the chair. He collapsed into it after only a few steps, but he still didn’t say anything. Sherlock let his hands fall on top of John’s as he wheeled him out, just to let him know he was there.

The Trevors were waiting for him when as they entered the main room, and John glanced up to him.

“I’m okay, you can say your goodbyes,” John offered. He nodded to the Trevors. “Take care.”

“Thanks for everything, John,” Victor said with a strained smile. He was clearly still embarrassed from the kiss back at the flat.

Silence fell between him and the Trevors; they were the last ones left in the safe house. Hailey was the first to step up. She slipped his hand into his, and he melted at the softness and comfort from the touch. She offered him a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a bright smile.

“I had the biggest crush on you when I was younger,” she admitted. “Why do you think I always wanted to hang out with you?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but to laugh. _That explains a lot!_

“I just thought you thought I was cool.”

“I did!” Hailey giggled. “Cool _and_ cute. And you still are. It was really cool of you to come save me. I mean it. I’ll never forget it, Sherlock, and I’ll be in debt to you forever. You didn’t have to help us, and you shouldn’t have after the way you were treated-“ she glared at her brother, and he realized for the first time there was still some animosity between the two siblings. “But you did, and you saved me. I could have been hurt a lot worse than I was. I could have died. You put yourself in danger…you and your flatmate got seriously hurt and all because of me. I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but thank you. You didn’t have to help me. You’re a bigger person than we are for it.”

She hugged him again, and he lingered in her embrace, appreciative of what she said.

“You don’t have to be thankful,” he whispered. “You’ll always have my help.”

She stole a kiss on his cheek again as she pulled away, wiping tears from her face. His heart melted as Hailey bolted from the room, completely overcome by emotion.

Victor stepped up next, and his body tensed up in defense.

“She’s right,” Victor said quietly, “you didn’t have to help. I owe you my entire life, Sherlock. I’m sorry for how I treated you back then. I was a prick.”

“You were going through a trauma-“

“Don’t!” Victor held a finger to his lips, and when Sherlock shivered he quickly withdrew it. “I spent all night talking to my father. He made me realized some things I didn’t think about. I told you I meant every word of what I said that day, and at the time I did. I didn’t have anyone to help me understand what was going on, and I was just so confused and angry. But I was being a child, and I really hurt you- literally. Shit, you should have pressed charges. I’m still trying to process what happened, but I just want you to know that I’ve changed. I really think I have. I’m sorry I’ve been such an arse to you. I never knew what I had with you and because of that I lost you to a man much better than me.

Mycroft told me he wanted to have my decision by morning. He offered us a choice: Hailey and I could continue living our normal lives, with much added security, of course, but we could never see Dad. He still has to stay in protective custody. This apparently goes deeper than we could ever imagine, and it just isn’t the right time for him to come back into this world. Our other choice was going into protective custody ourselves. We would have to give up everything- our home, my job, our names, even. But we could be a family again, and that’s what we’re going to do. This has to be the last time I see you, Sherlock, for all of our sakes. It took years to even begin to get over the shock of losing my dad and kicking you out of my life, but once I started raising Hailey on my own I wanted nothing more than to have someone there to help. I needed someone, and I beat the only other person who would have been there for me down like a dog. I don’t want you to forgive me, Sherlock.”

“Victor-“ Mr. Trevor tried desperately.

Sherlock wanted to say something himself, but he was too in shock over what he was hearing. He swallowed and tried to speak, but his throat was too raw.

“No!” Victor exclaimed, stomping his foot like a child. “Sherlock has to hear this. I meant it yesterday when I said you didn’t deserve all of that. You didn’t deserve _any_ of it. At the time I was just so messed up, but that wasn’t an excuse. What hurts even more is knowing that you thought you deserved it. Please don’t keep blaming yourself for what happened. Please.” They gazed at each other, and Victor’s voice was nearly a whisper as he pleaded: “I’d love to hug you right now, if you’d let me.”

“I…I…”

He didn’t know what he wanted. His mind was torn between being confused over Victor’s sudden confession and the knowledge that this would be the last time they would ever speak. He didn’t want Victor to go, he realized, even though he knew there was little reason to want him to stay.

“It’s okay,” Victor said, holding his hands up in defense. “Just promise me that you’ll stay strong, Sherlock. I’m grateful for this chance to move forward, and I hope that you will move forward too. I can see how much you’ve changed. You’ve grown up into this great man, and god, looking at you it’s like…I can see all I’ve lost. John’s lucky to have you, and I’m sorry I pushed you away back then. I’m sorry that I ruined your life and left you alone like that, and I’m sorry if you have spent all this time thinking you deserved that. Just know that you didn’t.”

Victor offered him one last smile before he turned and walked out of his life for the last time. His heart raced with each echo of his ex-lover’s footsteps, and part of him wanting to chase after him, pin him up against the wall, and tell him he was right about everything. But part of him still didn’t know what to think about all this. He watched until Victor stepped out of the main room, and a pit fell into his stomach as he realized Victor Trevor was simply _gone_.

“He’s right, you know,” Mr. Trevor suddenly whispered. “You need to forgive yourself, Sherlock. I hated hearing about what my son did to you. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to be put in that situation at all. I’m sorry, I should have pulled you out as soon as I realized how dangerous the investigation was. I should have never put you or the kids in danger like that. Hailey’s right, you are a great man for still helping out after Victor refused to see you again. Apparently the kids fought for a long time after that, and mostly over you. She didn’t agree with any of it.”

“She’s a bright kid,” Sherlock admitted. “Victor raised her well.”

Mr. Trevor beamed.

“That he has.” He swallowed and glanced down before meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. He looked desperate and tired; his age was showing well on his pale, wrinkled, face. “Thank you for saving her. Thank you for saving me. You’re a great man, Sherlock, and I’m so, so proud of what you have become.”

His heart tore into two, and Sherlock blinked rapidly as tears swelled in his eyes. _No one_ had said that to him before. He suddenly yearned to having Mr. Trevor as a father figure again, and it made him ill to think this would be the last time they would ever speak.

“I’m in debt to you and your brother,” Mr. Trevor said. “We all are. Please stop blaming yourself and forgive yourself. Be with John, he’s good people. I can tell he cares for you.”

Somehow he didn’t register anything he was being told. Suddenly he wanted to take complete advantage of this last conversation with Mr. Trevor, and he didn’t want to talk about John.

What he wanted to talk about, he realized, was the drugs.

He wanted Mr. Trevor to know everything.

“I was addicted to cocaine!” He blurted out. Mr. Trevor’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, letting him continue. His voice shook with nervous as he explained: “After Victor broke up with me I was homeless, and I was introduced to drugs again. I became addicted. I overdosed a couple of times and ended up in rehab a couple of times. It was my brother who saved me. That’s why I’ve always hated myself- I ruined my own life with my own stupidity. I should have never told on you. I should have talked to you. I should have been stronger.”

“You should have done no such thing,” Mr. Trevor replied. “I’m sorry to hear this, Sherlock, but it just makes me realize more how much _I_ failed _you_. I failed all of you. The most important thing is that you turned your life around. You’re stronger than all of us; you’re stronger than you realize.”

He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed him there, and he allowed it. He was grateful for Mr. Trevor’s kindness, though he didn’t dare admit it. It meant the world to him that the only father he ever had still accepted him for who he was, even after everything.

“We don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Mr. Trevor reiterated, “but you _deserve_ to know the truth. I told you I worked with your brother to bring down this drug ring. Mycroft had the rest of them killed last night. That’s why it’s safe for us to go home. Your brother and I have been working together for a long time, and we’ve managed to take care of a lot of bad people.”

“And by take care of you mean-?”

“You know what I mean,” Mr. Trevor said. “We’ve been waiting for the drug cartel to make its way back to the U.K., and when they did Mycroft and I made plans to strike. I was kidnapped early in the morning before we could act, and, well, you know the rest. The house belonged to a dead member of the drug ring. I still don’t know how they found out I was back in the country- everything just fell apart so quickly. Like Victor told you, we’re going back into protective custody. We will be monitored closely by your brother, but I will stop working on these cases. There are a lot of people out there who would love to hurt me, Sherlock, and I hate to put my kids in that kind of danger. But I want them by my side. I want us to be a family again.”

“I want that for you too,” Sherlock whispered.

Mr. Trevor beamed.

“You’re a great man, Sherlock,” he repeated, “and a damn fine detective.”

A small smile peered from the corner of his lips as he admitted:

“I learned from the best.”

Mr. Trevor rolled his eyes and stuck out his arms. Sherlock embraced him tightly, and when they broke apart he somehow felt empty. Knowing that the Trevors were all alive and that he would never be able to see or talk to them again was almost worse than being kicked out of their lives.

“Mycroft can explain the rest to you. Take care of yourself, Sherlock,” Mr. Trevor said. “Thank you, for everything.”

Sherlock nodded. He swallowed and looked to the floor, desperate to hide the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He let Mr. Trevor leave the safe house first, and as soon as he was alone he gazed up at the ceiling with tears in his eyes. His heart leapt when the ringtone from the new mobile Mycroft gave him erupted in the silent house.

“Mycroft,” he greeted, recognizing the number immediately.

There was a moment of silence, and then:

“You can’t see them again, Sherlock,” his brother said quietly.

“I know.”

“The kidnappers are all dead. The drug ring has been taken care of.”

“I know.”

Another long pause, and then:

“Are you alright?”

He simply hung up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should only be one chapter left! More Mycroft, a final flashback, and Sherlock and John are back at Baker Street in the (maybe!) final chapter. Stay tuned for the end! Thanks SO much for all the support throughout this story! I would love to know what you thought of it, and what you think of the end.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

A smile crossed his face as he unlocked his dorm room and quickly led Victor inside. Victor laughed as he shook the rain from his hair. They were both shivering and soaked, having just ran from the library where they met only two weeks ago. His new friend had simply asked for a place to sit, and it didn’t take long for Sherlock to realize he intended to sit there _every day_ for the next couple of weeks.

Victor’s eyes twinkled as they gazed at each other, sharing a final laugh.

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” Victor said. “My room is too far away to walk in this bloody mess. And Christ, it’s freezing!”

“Here,” Sherlock said, tossing him a blanket from the bed.

He stole a quick look around the room and was embarrassed to see its state: dirty clothes on the floor, open books piled on the bed, pages of notes stuck anywhere they could find. His closet was open to reveal a horrid collection of jumpers hanging off their hangers and a pile of boxers, of all things.

“Thanks,” Victor shivered. “Fucking rain. Do you mind if I stay the night?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He had the suspicion that Victor had some sort of feelings for him. It was in the way their chairs managed to inch closer together with each day spent in the library. He was invited to lunch, and their conversations were changing from history and English classes to vague attempts to get to know each other. But his body went cold- and not just from the rain- when Victor’s eyes twinkled with his question.

“Not like that!” Victor said quickly. “It’s just pouring outside, and freezing, and late, and I just thought-“

“No, it’s fine!” He insisted. He felt like an idiot. Of course that’s what Victor meant. “Yeah, of course you can stay.”

“Brilliant,” Victor said, sighing drastically with relief. “Do you have something I can wear?”

He dug around in a pile of clean clothes and pulled out some gym clothes he hadn’t even worn yet.

“Great,” Victor said as he accepted the clothes. “Mind if I shower?”

An electric shock went through him, and he his face burned with embarrassment although he wasn’t quite sure why. Victor disappeared to the showers down the hall, and as soon as the door closed Sherlock turned to the mirror.

He was grateful to see the bruises around his eye had completely faded to a yellowish tint only he would be able to make out. Turning around, he lifted up his shirt just enough to examine the small bruise planted against his lower back. Sherlock knew it wasn’t a big deal; he couldn’t even feel the wound as his shirt brushed against it. But it was the flash of memory that hit him when he closed his eyes and remembered how it got there-

“Sherlock?”

With a gasp he jumped around, quickly letting his shirt down. His eyes lifted to meet Victor, who was clearly shocked and disturbed.

“I realized I didn’t have a towel,” Victor explained quietly. His eyes lowered to where the bruise lay beneath his shirt. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock turned away and closed his eyes. How could he have been so stupid?

“Sherlock-“ Victor reached for his arm.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock jerked away and insisted:

“It’s nothing, alright?” He said. “I just…fell.”

Victor just blinked, and he hated himself for even speaking up. He couldn’t have possibly said something more idiotic.

“Today’s Thursday, Sherlock,” Victor said. “Four days since the weekend. You said you went home to pick up some of your things. Don’t think I didn’t notice the bruise when you came back.”

Sherlock gazed at him helplessly, and suddenly he felt more like a kid confronting an adult than someone talking to a classmate. With the way Victor was watching him- so nervous and afraid of the truth- he would be surprised if he didn’t leave and never talk to him again.

“You didn’t say anything,” Sherlock said.

“I didn’t want to scare you away.”

A hand landed on his own and his heart leapt to his throat. Cautiously, his eyes trailed down to find Victor’s fingers gently rubbing his wrist. His chest tightened and the world seemed to close in on him all at once. Running away was his first instinct, but Victor’s hold was too strong and worse, he was leaning closer. Leaning _into_ him. And not just his body: his arms, his hands, his lips. All becoming closer…

Until their lips brushed together and Sherlock gasped, giving Victor a pathway into his mouth. His tongue slipped in and Sherlock awkwardly swallowed, unsure of what to do. He closed his eyes and pressed his arms firmly by his sides, in a sort of defensive pose, but Victor kept kissing him. Those lips pressed against him harder as the tongue slipped out of his mouth gracefully, and when he finally broke apart Victor was smiling.

“Was that your first kiss?” Victor asked.

_I don’t want to answer._

But their eyes were glued together, and he had nowhere to hide.

So he nodded.

Victor smiled again and glanced away, bashful.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist,” Victor said. His hand slipped away, but as relieved as he felt at having control of his body again Sherlock suddenly missed feeling Victor against him. “I just want you to know that I care. You don’t have to tell me the truth if you’re not ready, but I want to tell _you_ the truth: I like you, Sherlock. I’d like to be friends- more than friends. That’s why I keep bugging you every day. I just…I never knew how to say it. Now I get why you’re so quiet; Christ, you’re probably scared shitless. Whatever happened to you…you’re not alone, okay? You’ve got me.”

Sherlock realized he was breathing a bit too rapidly and sucked in a deep breath, desperate for oxygen.

“I barely know you,” he whispered, “why do you care?”

Victor’s hand reached up to brush his shoulder gently.

“Because I can tell you’re worth it.”

 

Sherlock smiled to himself as the memory faded away and the postcard he was holding came back into view. The back of the card was blank, but the breathtaking photograph of a Tuscany beach on the front told him everything he needed to know: Victor was safe.

“You okay?”

He jumped at John’s voice. It had been two weeks since the Trevors left them behind for their new life. John mainly spent that time in bed while Sherlock moped around the flat. He felt like he was in limbo, stuck between two worlds: the world in which he and John were just flatmates- barely even _friends_ \- and hadn’t made out in a government save house…and the world in which they did. Some days he questioned rather any of it actually happened.

Until John appeared beside him, his fingers brushing over Sherlock’s hand.

“You’re out of bed,” Sherlock said.

John grinned.

“I thought I’d get up and move around a bit,” John said.

“You should have called for me!”

John’s face softened, and his own heart fluttered. His hand tightened around Sherlock’s arm, pulling him ever so closer.

“I’m fine,” John insisted. Their eyes met, and John’s were twinkling in a way that made his body twitch with excitement. “I feel fine-“ he planted a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, and he shivered. “I feel good, actually.”

His body tensed when John’s cold hands grasped his arms, squeezing him ever so slightly as their kiss deepened. Just as he sat down the postcard, John caught sight of it.

“What’s this?” John asked, tugging the card out of his hand. He turned it around to look at the photograph, and Sherlock swallowed nervously. “Is it from him?”

He nodded.

“It’s nothing.”

John stared at him and he looked away quickly, knowing he was caught.

“You miss him, don’t you?” John asked quietly. He didn’t respond. “Sherlock…can I be completely, one hundred percent, honest with you?”

His eyes trailed back to John, and he was surprised to see how sincere he looked. Something had been bothering him, he realized. He nodded again, and John drew in a deep breath before admitting:

“I didn’t like him,” John announced. Sherlock’s heart leapt to his throat, and his stomach ached. It wasn’t as though he had been looking for John’s approval of Victor… _right?_ “Yes, he has probably changed and grown up, but the fact is he was a jerk to you. When you two met you had been through hell with your family. He took that pain and manipulated you. He introduced you to drugs, knowing how vulnerable you are. He was horrible to you, Sherlock. Then, after all that, he crawls up to your doorstep and asks for help. He put you in danger. You could have died, and he just…it’s just…I’m not so sure these past few of weeks make up for what he did to you.”

John let out a long breath, as though winded from his confession. Emotion boiled up inside him, and he realized speaking was going to be impossible for a while.

“Sherlock-“ John grabbed his arm, “I know that he was your first love, but it was just really obvious that he’s always had this…control…over you. He makes you feel guilty when you don’t need to be. He created all this self-hatred that you have. Maybe he really did want to make things right, and maybe he changed, but in my option it takes a lot more than saying ‘I’m sorry’ to earn back your trust.”

His chest was so tight that he couldn’t even respond. John was still holding onto his arm, and with a long breath he managed to relax. He felt sick inside, and he knew it was because he was struggling with the fact that _John is right_.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” John said softly. He raised his palm to Sherlock’s chest, and his breath hitched. “I just think that you deserve so much more…you don’t realize how much. You don’t have any idea, and I just…I respect you. I care about you a lot. I’ll never hurt you like that.”

Their lips met again, and Sherlock was stunned into silence. He let John kiss him, and the gesture was painfully one-sided as John tried to initiate more and he just stood there, taking it. Eyes wide, he froze up completely, caught between these new ideas about Victor and John’s confession.

“Sherlock,” John breathed as he broke away to allow their foreheads to rest together. “I’m sorry if that was out of line.”

He shook his head.

“No, it’s just…” he paused and closed his eyes, searching for the strength to talk to him. He thought back to that day out on the road and kissing Victor for the first time after their fight. He thought about trying drugs and the way Victor looked at him after he escaped his father’s abuse. “When Victor and I first got together I was just happy to have someone who wanted to talk to me. I didn’t have anyone, John, I…didn’t think I was letting anyone manipulate me at the time. I was just grateful for someone who cared. Or pretended to. I guess…you’re right, I was very vulnerable. I do think there was something pure about Victor- at one point in time. But he was always a bit-“

“Possessive?” John asked.

He nodded again.

“Not in a physical way,” he admitted, “and not even in a demeaning way. I just realize now I should have never fallen for some of the things I did with Victor. But I don’t regret it.”

“You shouldn’t,” John said, offering him a small smile. “Don’t regret it. Don’t even regret what happened between you two during this whole fiasco. All I’m trying to say is: you can trust me. If I ever do anything that puts you in a bad position or makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me. Don’t just…take it. You’re stronger than that.”

He nodded once again, and a sort of electric shock when through him when he considered how hard it must have been for John to come up here and tell him this. He didn’t even want to think about Victor. His brain was only in tune to the fact that John was leaning toward him again. Their lips brushed together, and he raced through him. John’s hands traveled from his chest to his hip while Sherlock held the small of his back. He moaned as John planted kisses down his neck and pulled back his collar just enough to reveal skin. Closing his eyes hard, Sherlock held on as John sucked at his neck and caressed his jaw with a hand.

The only thing more shocking than the thought of _oh god this is happening_ was the fact that John was initiating it. His touches were warm and comforting, but he could practically feel John trembling with anticipating. He knew each ‘first time’ with a new partner was like entering into a whole new world; but for John, who had insisted at least a dozen times during the first month they were flatmates that he wasn’t gay, he knew this was _huge_.

And he didn’t want to ruin it for him.

Suddenly John’s hand was dipping beneath his shirt, and he wanted to warn him that they were moving way too fast, but when John’s skin brushed against his bare chest all the cells in his body seemed to turn to knots. He could only concentrate on their kiss and deepening it, so that his tongue could explore every inch of John’s mouth. He breathed in deeply and took in the smells of soap and fresh shampoo, and when he brought a hand up to the back of John’s head he was surprised to find a few wet strands fresh from a shower.

He wondered if John planned this. Had he been anxiously waiting for the right moment, ever since returning to Baker Street? Over the past two weeks it was like they were both walking on thin glass and neither were brave enough to make that first move. He didn’t want to rush John, but maybe he was being too cautious.

One of his shirt buttons popped open, and for a moment he stopped breathing. Then John’s hand snaked underneath his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband, until it found his chest again. His fingers dipped into the loops on John’s pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock tugged him ever-so-slightly closer.

As concerned as he was for John, John didn’t seemed concerned for himself at all. He pushed forward so that Sherlock fell back against the counter. The fall took his breath away, leaving him helpless as John desperately popped the rest of his shirt buttons open. Sherlock helped him tug the top off his shoulders, and they were left gasping with the efforts of shedding the first piece of clothing.

Their eyes met and something swirled inside John’s: something dark and desperate, and Sherlock realized just how much he wanted this. His hands traveled down until they hovered just above were John’s cock lay carefully hidden by cloth, and after hesitating for a moment John nodded, giving him permission to proceed.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as his hand dashed forward, and John gasped as he groped him once, twice-

John grabbed onto his shoulders and wrapped his hands around his back for support. He watched, curious, as John’s eyes fell closed and wondered what must be going through his mind.

 _His first time with a man and that man is me,_ he dared to think only to himself.

At last he realized the friction of fabric rubbing against his cock must have been too much, and Sherlock took a risk and lowered the pyjama bottoms just slightly past John’s hip. Pants were the next obstacle, but John willingly took care of that as he reached down to shrug them off. He let out a shaky breath and gazed up at Sherlock, who was too busy gawking at the cock hanging out before him. He felt ridiculous, and he knew he must look ridiculous when John grinned at him and teased:

“Are you sure you’ve done this before? Because you’re looking a bit like you’re not sure what to do with it.”

His cheeks burned, and he wanted to explain that it wasn’t that he was overwhelmed by the sight of it- as gorgeous as _it_ was- but the simple meaning behind all of this.

They were moving forward.

 _He_ was moving forward.

And it felt…right.

Letting out his own trembling sigh he fell to his knees and grabbed for the cock in front of him, maybe a little too eagerly as John winced and gripped his shoulders tightly. He looked up at John, pleading with him, and a wave of heat rushed through him when he was given permission with a single nod of the head.

His stomach did flips as he lowered the shaft into his mouth. Overwhelmed by the taste and sensations running through him, he closed his eyes tightly and focused on the soft grunts coming from above him.

“I was wrong,” John gasped, clenching Sherlock’s shoulders even more tightly. “You do know what you’re doing. Definitely…”

He trailed off as Sherlock took him down further, and soon the arousal was too much for him to handle. Reaching down, he fumbled with his own zipper and began tugging his trousers away. He realized John was pulling away, like he was signaling for him to slow down, and Sherlock let him go with a gasp for breath.

Gracefully, he slid back up John’s body and let their heads rest together for a moment.

“Do you want to lay down?” Sherlock asked.

He realized the fact that John kept holding onto him probably signaled he was having trouble with his back. John nodded feverishly, looking embarrassed, and rasped:

“Your room?”

Sherlock nodded and grabbed his hand to lead him into his room. As he closed the door behind him he was suddenly embarrasased by the state of it. The periodic table poster on the wall, the microscopes lining the dresser, the sheet music lying about in piles on the floor, it all seemed so childish and unimportant.

John didn’t seem to notice as he pulled off his own shirt, and Sherlock couldn’t help but to stare as his lover fell back into the bed.

How had he never noticed how handsome John was? Sure he had gained some weight after being discharged, but well-toned muscles still poked out where he had once very much been in great shape. The scar from his bullet wound stood out on his shoulder, and John seemed to shudder when his eyes found it. John’s hand rested on his stomach, trembling ever so slightly and _god he’s naked on top of my bed_.  

His body was suddenly very tense, and he remembered how nervous he was the first time he had sex. It was like that all over again, except worse because he knew what was coming and he wanted it so badly.

“Are you finished?” John teased.

He grinned, and suddenly all the nerves went away. _This_ felt right. It felt completely natural. His muscles finally relaxed and felt a little less like jelly as he climbed into bed and hovered over John. Their eyes met, daring one another to make the next move.

At last they settled for another breath-stealing kiss, and he lowered himself gently on top of John. He tugged at the duvet below them until he could pull it from underneath them and throw it over them, hiding their bodies. They were already slick with sweat, and John’s hands slipped a bit as he reached up for his pants. Sherlock gazed into his eyes as they were finally both naked, their cocks rubbing gently against each other.

They paused, like there was something both of them wanted to say but neither wanted to interrupt the moment. There was so much he could have said to John- _thank you, I like you too, I want this, I want you-_ but he let his actions say it all instead. He reached down and cupped John’s cock in his hand and stroked him gently. He was already hard, and John threw his head back into pillow at the effort.

“Sherlock!” John gasped.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could get used to this. He really could.

He was hard too, and the relief of simply rubbing off against John’s thigh told him they wouldn’t make it long. He took both of them in hand and rubbed their erections together desperately. John thrust up, meeting his rhythm and he wasn’t sure his heart had ever pounded so hard.

They needed to be closer.

Sherlock scooted up so that he hovered above John’s head a bit, one arm wrapped around his back and one still pumping away at their cocks. John reached up to press gently against his chest, and his body burned at the touch. A hand crept around, finding the crack of his arse and he moaned at the sudden intrusion.

Only the horrible squeaks of his mattress at their every move and their frantic grunts and gasps filled the room.

Something churned in his chest and fell to his stomach. His body stiffened, and he hardly had time to let out a loud, endless moan before he came, coating their bodies.

“Oh god!” John gasped, watching him.

He closed his eyes and trembled, embarrassed at ending this so soon. But John didn’t seem to mind. His lips were attacking his own again, and a hand was suddenly pushing his fingers away.

 _“Oh!”_ Sherlock moaned as the last drops of come sprinkled onto John’s chest.

His eyes flew open and he shocked at how _alive_ he felt. Looking down and seeing John so desperate for him filled his mind with endless possibilities. His body was heavy, but thoughts raced around his head at an impossible pace.

At last he settled for slipping down so that his mouth met John’s cock again. John grunted and let out a soft cry as he took him down. Hands grasped at his hair, massaging his scalp and grabbing roughly at his sensitive curls.

“Gonna come,” John whispered.

Sherlock pulled away in time with a pop and a gasp, knowing he wasn’t up for sucking him down completely. John didn’t seem offended as his hips thrusts up and down, searching for friction. Eyes closed and head thrown back, John looked exceptionally exotic. Extraordinary. Perfect.

He came, coating both their fingers. Sherlock closed his eyes just as some of his release hit his chin, and John just gasped as he rode through his orgasm. When he came back down, Sherlock crawled up the length of his body so that their faces were just inches from each other. They gazed at each other, sloppy smiles plastered on their faces, before dipping into a final, electrifying, kiss.

With a final gasp he settled beside John and turned toward him. They were still just inches from each other, and he could feel each of John’s hot breaths as he reached up to brush the hair from his face.

John glanced over his shoulder at the clock on his bedside table and laughed.

“It’s only eleven AM,” he said with a grin.

He turned back to Sherlock nuzzled up to him. Sherlock shivered, though his body felt nice and warm. John pulled the covers over them more, hiding them from view except for their faces.

Sherlock caressed his face and studied his eyes.

“How do you feel?” He asked quietly.

He sounded more concerned than he should have. He was worried he pushed John too much, considering he was still recovering. His own arm ached in its cast, which he had forgotten about completely.

“Amazing,” John said, planting a kiss to his forehead. “How can you even ask that?”

“I meant your back.”

John’s face fell, and he admitted:

“It’s a bit sore…I don’t think this is what they mean when they said getting back to light daily activities.”

They both giggled, and Sherlock was grateful for the comic relief. John’s fingers played with the cast, which was thankfully due to be taken off in another three weeks. His eyes traveled back up, connecting with Sherlock's in wonder.

“You’re not freaked out about this at all?” John asked him.

Sherlock smiled at him.

“I never said that!” He teased.

They laughed and buried themselves deeper into the pillows. A smile was still on his face as he closed his eyes and settled into John’s embrace to sleep the morning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided there should be one more chapter! An epilogue is on the way! With more smut. Thanks for all the support!!!!!


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is: the conclusion of Left Behind!
> 
> Warning: descriptions of child abuse

It was night when his eyes flashed open again. The sound of someone knocking at the door must have woken him up, and he was envious to see John was sleeping through it all next to him. He took a moment to admire his new lover, still naked beside him with the duvet drawn up to his bare shoulder. John looked peaceful for the first time since before Victor came into town, and Sherlock didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

Grabbing his pyjama bottoms and shirt, Sherlock stumbled his way through the flat. One glance at his mobile told him it was nearly midnight, and his heart leapt with panic when he realized his body had actually let him sleep for over twelve hours. Still he felt tired, and as his feet shuffled across the hardwood he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed.

“Who is it?” He asked, stifling a yawn.

“Me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the door. He had to take in a few, calming, breaths to keep himself from freaking out about the fact that Mycroft dared to knock on his door at midnight of all times.

Nevertheless he opened it, knowing his brother wouldn’t go away. He was surprised to see Mycroft standing fully dressed in a suit, ready to work and holding a suitcase by his side. Mycroft’s eyes roamed over him, landing briefly on the cast protecting his arm before meeting his own.

“I’m on my way to Africa,” Mycroft explained, “but I wanted to see you first.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Don’t let me get in the way of Africa.” He let his brother in and offered: “Tea?”

“Please,” Mycroft replied, “I loathe red-eye flights.”

He was embarrassed to realize how sore he was as he trudged into the kitchen and flipped on a light. He could almost hear Mycroft smirking behind him; of course his brother would be able to deduce what had happened.

“How’s John?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock tensed.

“Getting better,” he said. He carefully avoided looking at his brother as he prepared the tea. “It’s nearly midnight, Mycroft. Not that I am ungrateful, but you rarely bother to visit when you are heading out of the country.”

“Given the circumstances…” Mycroft trailed off and swallowed, as though he were actually fighting to maintain composure. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

At last his eyes flickered back to his brother, impressed. A shiver ran through his body as they studied each other. Sometimes it felt like he and Mycroft didn’t know each other at all. It was like they were two complete strangers, forced together by this requirement of _family_ \- a requirement neither bothered to acknowledge. They looked out for each other in their own way, but he knew Mycroft loitered around sometimes just to get a better idea of who his little brother really was.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Your bruises still show,” Mycroft commented. Sherlock turned away, feeling subconscious. It was bad enough standing here and pretending like what just happened with John didn’t happen, but it was even worse to pretend like he was perfectly okay. “Are you going back to the doctor for a follow-up?”

“Yes Mum,” Sherlock shot. He sighed. “It’s fine, Mycroft. I’m fine. Was there anything else you wanted?”

Their eyes met again, and Sherlock almost felt guilty when he saw how taken aback Mycroft was. It was almost like… _he truly cared_. Maybe his affair with Lestrade softened him.

“I want to talk about Father.”

Sherlock was so shocked that he nearly dropped the kettle. His good hand gripped the countertop and his eyes closed. He breathed slowly, once again trying to not freak out.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Sherlock whispered.

“I do,” Mycroft insisted. “We need to talk about this, Sherlock. You never told me. I want to know what he did.”

As his eyes flew open his hands began shaking, and he couldn’t hide his anger as he swirled around and grabbed his brother by the shoulders. Mycroft blinked, startled, but didn’t fight him.

“You want to know what he did?” Sherlock spat. He searched his brother’s eyes, and when he didn’t argue he spun Mycroft around so that he was leaning over the counter. His head just barely missed slamming against the hard surface. “He was a drunk. He was an angry, selfish, _bastard_ , drunk, and to this day I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. It never mattered to him that I was responsible, or an adult, or capable of making my own choices and being my own person. It didn’t matter to him that I am his son. He would come home and if I so much as stepped into his line of sight he would shove me away.”

He shoved Mycroft away so violently that he stumbled back and grabbed the cabinets behind him for support. Mycroft straightened himself up, trying to look unaffected, but by his short breathing he knew he caught his older brother off guard.

“If I dared to cross his path during one of his rants he might pin me against the wall- “stepping forward, he roughly grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders again so that they were just inches apart. Mycroft looked away; it was clearly too much for him to hear. Sherlock lowered his voice, afraid he might have woken John. “And if he were really pissed, he’d raise a hand, sometimes a fist- “his good hand flew forward, stopping just before it could grace his brother’s cheek. He planted his arm against Mycroft’s neck, mimicking choking him. “He would never realize that I couldn’t breathe or see. He might slam me on to the ground so that I couldn’t move. He would scream at me so loud I can still hear his voice echoing through the house. I was a punching bag for him, Mycroft. I was a way to let the world know how angry he was. Do you want to know what he _did_?”

Backing away, Sherlock quickly removed his shirt and turned around. He breathed out a low, easy, breath, as he revealed for the first time to his brother the white scars that still danced across his back. A calloused finger graced his spine, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Somehow it felt like the touch was more painful than it actually was.

He turned around again and placed Mycroft’s hand to his ribcage. His ribs were still bruised from the kidnapping, but when their eyes met he knew Mycroft understood that he was no stranger to a broken rib.

“There were no limits, when it came to Father,” Sherlock whispered. “He roughed me up, Mycroft, quite frequently too.”

“Did he ever-?”

His voice broke off, and Sherlock felt sick, knowing what his brother was asking.

“He pushed me,” Sherlock said quietly, “he pushed me so far that he nearly broke me completely. He never…he just…it was pain, Mycroft. Pain was the only thing I ever knew from him. If it weren’t for Victor I…I don’t know what I would have happened to me. I ran away to his place over the summer. I went there all the way from London in the rain. God I was I mess and I…I think I really saved myself, running away from him that time. But after I did I would sneak back in, to get some of my things because for the longest time all I had were the close he beat me in. He would find me, and he would be even angrier.”

Mycroft’s hand slipped away from his ribs, and Sherlock hugged himself. He felt very cold and very exposed, and Mycroft reached down for his shirt. He handed it out to him and Sherlock took it. When the tea was ready Mycroft poured it for him, and he shook as he accepted his.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

His brother simply sipped at his tea quietly and gazed at him over the rim of his mug.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft finally offered. Sherlock looked up, and he was shocked to see Mycroft’s eyes were actually straining with emotion. “I’m sorry I left you with him. You shouldn’t have had to rely on strangers to help you. I was selfish. I found my way out, and I stayed out.”

Sherlock stayed quietly and leaned against the counter beside his brother. A question rattled his mind, one he had always wanted to ask, and after a few painful moments of silence he finally blurted out:

“Did he ever hit you?”

Mycroft went very still, and his face went very white.

Sherlock knew his answer.

“There you have it,” Sherlock whispered. “We were both too ashamed to tell each other, I suppose.”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t angry at me for leaving.”

“I was,” he drew in a deep breath, and admitted: “You left me behind, and I hated you for it.”

He could practically feel Mycroft’s blood run cold beside him, but his brother still kept it together.

“You had every right to,” Mycroft said, “but one of the reasons I stayed in school- one of the reasons I stayed away and built up my career- is because I knew what our future looked like. I knew we would only have ourselves to rely on. For the longest time I was in denial of that: I didn’t want to admit to myself that my mother was dead, that I had a little brother to raise and protect. I was upset, and in denial and, frankly Sherlock, I was depressed. For a long time.”

Silence fell between them again, and Sherlock couldn’t admit how much he admired his brother for being able to tell him what he was going through back then.

“I thought I was doing good for us both,” Mycroft admitted, “but I was too selfish to realize my own brother was out there, desperate for my help.”

“I do wish you had been there,” Sherlock confessed, “but I don’t have a very good track record of accepting help. The drugs, rehab…god it just doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s amazing that you got through it,” Mycroft said quietly, “you’re stronger than you know.”

Sherlock’s heart fluttered and he was a bit dazed when he realized Mycroft was complimenting him.

“I’ll be out of the country for a week or so, but if you need anything-“

“I know your number,” Sherlock finished. They looked at each other and perhaps for the first time ever he didn’t want his brother to leave. It almost made him feel sick inside, though he didn’t know why. It’s not like they would make these heart-to-hearts a habit. “Lestrade has done some good for you, then?”

A sly smile crept from the corners of his brother’s lips.

“It’s a very private affair, but yes, I’m afraid he has forced emotions into it all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Emotions,” he laughed. “How dare he?”

He wrapped an arm around his ribs, which felt a bit sore again.

“You should sleep, and I should catch my plane,” Mycroft said.

He poured the rest of his tea into the sink and carefully sat the mug down. Sherlock was stunned when Mycroft held out a hand to shake. He took it, secretly feeling a bit silly to shaking hands with his own brother, but he knew what the gesture meant.

“Take care of yourself,” Mycroft ordered. “If you or John need anything-“

“I know,” he whispered, offering him a grateful smile.

As he led his brother out the door another yawn escaped him. His body felt tired and weak, and he knew he was heading for his usual post-case crash.

“Oh, and Mycroft?” He called as Mycroft stepped outside. Mycroft turned to look at him, his hand grasping his suitcase. It hit him for the first time how old his brother looked. Mycroft certainly wore his age, and his eyes were even older. The perfection he put into his work, into his clothes, and surely into his affair, didn’t top the perfection he put into keeping his childhood secrets safe. Sherlock offered him a pure, honest, smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Mycroft nodded, and without another word slipped away. A black sedan waited outside the flat, and Sherlock waited until he could make sure his brother was safely inside it before he closed the door. He turned back to the living room and was put taken aback by how quiet and big the flat suddenly seemed.

Quiet, big, and _different_.

His eyes swept over the flat, finding various objects that were either his or John’s: books, albums, sheet music, photographs.

Their clothes, scattered about the floor.

Heat rose to his cheeks as he realized Mycroft would have noticed that. He picked up the clothes as he headed back toward his bedroom, flipping the kitchen light off on his way.

His mind felt heavy, drained, as he closed the door behind him. John stirred awake and Sherlock flinched, regretting disturbing him.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight,” he said.

He slipped into bed and rolled over to face John. In the moonlight John’s face looked completely white. While he was slowly regaining his strength, John was still weaker than normal. Being trapped in bed for so long was bringing him down, and the way John’s eyes lit up whenever he was around was obvious.

“Are you alright?” John asked softly.

He reached up and brushed something away from Sherlock’s eye, and he was horrified to realize he was crying.

“Sherlock?” John pleaded.

Sherlock simply wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close. He buried his face into his lover’s shoulders, breathing in his warmth. He tried to think of how the sex felt, how it felt to be there in his arms now, and tried to push away the memories of his father that crept toward the surface while talking to Mycroft.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice echoed. His arms squeezed him, and Sherlock shook with the effort of crying.

He couldn’t remember crying in front of someone since…since Victor.

“Who was that at the door?” John demanded. “I heard it close.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock lied.

He sounded helpless and tired, and he hid his face deeper into John’s warm skin.

“Thank you,” Sherlock announced against his body.

John froze before asking:

“For what?”

Sherlock trembled as he pulled away. Their faces lay right next to each other as they snuggled closer together under the sheets.

“You’re amazing,” Sherlock sang quietly, running a finger down John’s face. He felt John shudder beneath his touch, and the very thought of it made him aroused. They kissed, and when they broke apart their lips lingered together. “It’s just some stuff from the past.”

“You can tell me about it,” John said.

He sounded so desperate to understand what Sherlock was going through that it made him reach up and caress John’s face. He just couldn’t believe that someone cared this much about him.

“I will,” Sherlock promised, “but I don’t want to think about it.”

Without asking for permission, Sherlock rolled on top of him. They gazed at each other in the darkness before leaning closer together for another kiss. This one was deep and _hot_ ; his hand crept up John’s naked arms to wrap around his neck. John drew in rapid breaths as his tongue danced across Sherlock’s teeth and shoved its way down his throat. Sherlock moaned as John squeezed his arms, coaxing him to speed things up. It was only when their cocks rubbed together, his clothed and John’s bare, together that Sherlock realized his lover was already hard.

_He woke up this way._

The thought made him shudder, and he planted his knee between John’s legs to pry him open. Their eyes met and for a moment they just breathed quietly. He searched those eyes, this time looking for permission. His knee scrapped against John’s throbbing cock, and maybe it was that single bit of friction, but suddenly John nodded quickly.

John threw his arms over his own head, almost as though he were ready to just lay back and take it. Sherlock reached over to his bedside table, planting desperate kisses down John’s neck as he fumbled for condom and lube.

As he found the supplies he threw off his own shirt, and John didn’t hesitate to reach up and plant his hands against his nipples. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and he breathed in sharply.

_He remembered how much I like that._

Sherlock sat up, and goosebupms ran up and down his body when he noticed John admiring him. Watching him. Waiting for him. Anxious.

With one finger lubed up he leaned back down, and he breathed hot, steady, breaths against John’s face for a moment. John didn’t protest at first, but when he moved to slide back down a hand grasped the back of his neck. He looked up, and his heart melted when he realized John was actually nervous.

Well, so was he, really.

“Be gentle, okay?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

“I know,” he rasped. “Your back-“

“No,” John looked him dead in the eye and whispered: “I’ve never done this with a man before. I don’t know what to expect.”

Sherlock appreciated that so much that he leaned down to suck at John’s navel; a simple act that nearly sent his lover arching off the bed.

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock whispered, catching his back with his good hand.

He kissed his way down to John’s cock and planted a kiss there too before placing his finger at his entrance. John’s eyes were pinned on him as he held his breath, waiting for whatever was next.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded, trembling.

He pushed in and John moaned, twisting in the sheets. Sherlock pulled out quickly, worried that he hurt him, but John’s arms flailed, reaching for whichever piece of him he could catch. Sherlock leaned forward, rocking John into the bed as he pushed in again. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the feeling of even just that single finger being inside his flatmate, and when John’s hands landed in his hair, tugging at his curls, he was moaning too.

“Ugh!” John groaned as he pushed in a bit further. _“Uh.”_

John broke out into frantic pants as he pulled out a bit. He struggled with the lube, the stupid cast was in the way, and he was shocked when John reached out to help. He froze as John took the bottle and gently applied what was probably more than enough to his second finger. Then his lover fell back into the bed again, breathing heavily.

Sherlock pushed in with the second finger, and John _whimpered_. He licked his lips, part of him nervous on John’s behalf but part of him already wanting to go deeper, harder, faster. Sinking down, he planted his chest against John’s so that their warm, flushed, skin brushed together as they rocked. He buried his head into John’s shoulder again so that he was only paying attention to the slight brush of his fingers against John’s walls and the quiet moans from the man beneath him.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded again, directly into his ear.

He pulled out abruptly and John let out a soft cry. He pushed in again with three fingers, and his eyes stayed closed as he finished preparing his lover. Hands grasped desperately at his back; fingertips sank painfully into his spine. Nails dragged down to his hips, holding him there with bruising strength. Palms brushed down into his pyjamas, clenching his arse and pushing the pants just enough past his hips to allow his cock to spring against John’s stomach.

He gasped, suddenly feeling cold, but as John wrapped his around him tighter the warmth of skin against skin soothed him. John squirmed and rutted against the sheets, signaling that he was ready.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock grasped his own cock and lined himself up. With their heads buried into each other’s bodies and his injured arm resting awkwardly against John’s chest, Sherlock fought with the angle a few times before successfully pushing his tip against the hole.

“Uh!” John sang again, hot breath flowing against Sherlock’s ears.

He pushed in a little.

“Sherlock!”

He gasped and pulled out a bit and John let out a shaky breath against his neck. Using two fingers, Sherlock stretched him open a little more and tested it with his prick. John still gasped, and anxiety began to riddle him.

_Maybe we’re moving too fast._

John gripped his arm tightly, but his body still rubbed against the bed, seeking friction. Sherlock pushed in with a third finger, stretching him so that he could reach _just there_. A violent gasp erupted beneath him, and he buried his head back into John’s shoulder to fight the urge to smile. John’s cock brushed against his chest as he continued to work him open. His fingers twisted in and out until John shuddered again and breathed one simple request into his ear:

“More.”

He shook as he lined himself up again. This time he slipped in much easier, and the two of them groaned in unison as he stretched himself out over John. They curled up together as he gave John time to adjust, and he was surprised when it was his lover who began the slow rocking first.

Around them the flat was painfully silent, and he was suddenly aware that each of their pants, each creek of the bed, could be heard beyond the halls of their room. It was hard to care as John’s fingers dug into his back again, willing him to go faster. Their arses pounded against each other’s; John’s cock still rubbed desperately against his chest. Just as he reached for it John grabbed ahold and

_Oh god._

He might as well have died right then and there as John began to fuck himself in rhythm to his thrust. Sherlock felt himself slipping, and he reached down just before his prick could slide out again. John held onto him for dear life with one hand, with his eyes closed and head thrown back in ecstacy.

The other hand kept masturbating.

Every now and then the head of John’s dick and his knuckles would brush against Sherlock’s body and he whimpered. More than ever he hated that bloody cast.

_But if this is what we can do maimed and injured…_

“Sherlock,” John trembled, his lips right at his ear. Sherlock’s harsh, uneven, breaths replied, giving John a moment to catch his own breath before demanding: _“Harder.”_

“Oh god,” Sherlock gasped.

He thrust into John harder, sending his entire body bouncing up and down against the mattress. John leaned up to his arms, letting him old him as his cock bounced in and out of his arse. Sherlock tensed up, wincing at the overwhelming sensations taking over him. His stomach tightened up, warning him that he needed release soon.

“Harder, Sherlock!” John demanded again.

Lips tugged at his ear, egging him along. He thrust harder and harder, leaving John grunting with every move.

Lips graced the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and John demanded:

“Faster.”

Sherlock nearly broke at the breathless order, but he obeyed without argument. His cock slipped deeper and deeper into John, brushing against his walls at an impossible pace. His heart pounded so rapidly it sounded like it might tear into a million pieces. John’s hands were sweaty around his neck. His fingertips slipped again to his spine, digging in roughly and refusing to let go until he obeyed.

_Faster…faster…_

His cock pounded into John so fast and so hard that the pace was almost dizzying. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to look again at John’s erotic face or the cock bouncing in and out of his hand.

“Oh!” John suddenly exclaimed. Sherlock picked up his hips, bringing John even closer as he kept thrusting. Hands grasped at his arse, and John was placing with his cheeks again, squeezing them, teasing. _“More.”_

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.

_I can’t…_

But John grasped his arse, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open in shock. He pounded into him, ignoring their injuries, ignoring that he only had one useable hand, ignoring the creeks of the mattress springs and the beat of the bed against the wall.

“John!” He gasped again.

His body was rushing toward orgasm, and every inch of his being was so overwhelmed with the excitement and anticipation of it that all he could do was hold on. Their bodies folded together into one and _god_ they fit perfectly.

“Uh!” John grunted again in response. His fingernails scraped down his back as his arse rubbed against the sheets, jumping up at every thrust of Sherlock’s hips. “Oh god!”

Sherlock gasped as John suddenly came, spurting his release all over his hands and their bodies. John shook and whimpered as he came back down to earth, but Sherlock couldn’t let him off that easily as his own release rushed to the surface.

“Oh god, John!” He cried as he came.

He kept pounding his cock into John until the last of his release faded away. John was already settled into the mattress, breathing uneasily as he tried to regain composure. Sherlock grunted as he sat up, blinking in surprise at the stickiness between them. Sweat and come soaked their chests, and he reached for some tissues before grabbing at his already softening cock.

“I’m going to pull out,” he announced.

It was the first full sentence he managed since the sex began, but John could only manage to nod. His eyes were still closed, and his hand was thrown over his arms. Sherlock worried that maybe John was ashamed or embarrassed, but he knew they had to fix themselves before they could talk.

As he pulled out gently he relished in the last of John’s soft moans. He gasped himself as their bodies officially untangled. The sheets felt cold and damp as he sank back into them, and they rolled over so that they were facing each other.

At last John opened his eyes and smiled.

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked quietly.

His finger chased the sweat trickling from John’s face.

“No,” John whispered; his voice was hoarse. “I’ll just be sore. In a good way.”

They both laughed and Sherlock felt better. Their lips brushed together in a soothing kiss, and he relaxed even more when John’s hands reached for his hair, messaging his locks again.

“You’re good,” John murmured. Sherlock grinned at the praise. “ _Very_ good.”

They kissed again and laughed, and suddenly he felt stupid for worrying so much about taking that leap.

“I don’t know why I was so nervous,” John whispered, reading his mind. Sherlock resisted the urge to moan at the feeling of having his scalp message, and instead he scooted closer to him so that their faces were practically touching. “You’re amazing.”

Leaning forward, John kissed his sticky chest, and Sherlock gasped as his tongue lapped out at some of the cum stuck to his skin. His tongue even danced around his nipples, and Sherlock had to pull away gently, afraid of being aroused too quickly once again.

John laughed and sank back into the pillows.

“Though I suppose I really just sat back and took it,” John admitted. “It was selfish of me, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock blushed and shook his head.

“You were brilliant,” he replied. “Just brilliant. You always are.”

John’s hands trailed up so that he could brush the skin beneath Sherlock’s eyes.

“I just wish I knew why you were so upset,” John said.

Swallowing nervously, Sherlock confessed:

“Mycroft came back to ask about our Father.”

“Oh.”

John fell silent, and Sherlock felt guilty, knowing he regretted asking. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling as he went on:

“It was nice, actually. We pretty much decided we both had fucked up childhoods and there’s nothing we could have done about it. Mycroft actually said ‘I’m sorry’, and we parted on a good note.”

“A Mycroft Holmes apology?” John teased. “Wow. He must feel real guilty after the kidnapping bit.”

Sherlock hadn’t considered that, but he didn’t let it show as he quickly replied:

“Yeah.”

There was John’s hand again, tracing along his face, and now it was Sherlock’s turn to sit back and take it as kisses were planted down his jaw and neck.

“Do you feel like we did this all backward?” John asked.

Sherlock looked down at him as John continued to switch between suckling at his chest and neck.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

John shrugged, and Sherlock was relieved to observe that it didn’t look like he was retreating, but instead being painfully honest.

“We moved in together and had sex before going on a proper date.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he let out a laugh.

“Are you asking me out?”

Their eyes met, both twinkling, and John grinned:

“Sherlock Holmes, will you go out with me?”

Sherlock broke into a fit of laughter as he leaned down to kiss him again.

“Of course,” he murmured. They kissed again, but Sherlock suddenly pulled back, thoughtful. “But Angelos’, or somewhere else where they already think we’re gay. You know, until we’re ready.”

John nodded.

“Agreed.” His eyes trailed up to meet his again. Already Sherlock could feel both of them breathing a bit easier as their bodies coaxed them back to sleep. “I never would have made it through these past few weeks without you.”

Sherlock’s heart fluttered, but at the same time the image of John hanging upside-down in the crashed car, screaming for help, plagued him, and he forced his eyes shut.

“What?” John asked quietly.

“I just keep seeing it,” Sherlock said. “The crash…I hear you screaming. You would have never had to suffer through these past few weeks without me. I shouldn’t have brought you into it. It was far too dangerous-“

“I knew the risks,” John said. He planted a hand against Sherlock’s cheeks, and his eyes pried open. “I don’t blame you. Not one bit.”

John kissed him, his lips rough and hard against his own.

“I start physical therapy next week,” John said after they broke apart again. His fingers traced Sherlock’s bare thigh beneath the sheets, and his body tingled at the touch. “Would you come with me?”

“Of course.”

John breathed out a low sigh of relief.

“I’m nervous,” John admitted. “It will be fine, and it won’t be too big of a deal, but I’ve been through this before. I’m just nervous to do it again.”

“I probably pushed you too far tonight-“

“You didn’t!” John insisted. They stared at each other, and when John’s hand reached up to his chest he nearly stopped breathing. “You didn’t.”

They kissed again, and when they broke apart Sherlock buried his face into the crook of John’s neck.

 “Feeling that post-case crash yet?” John teased.

He nodded, and John ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

“Sleep,” John instructed. “God knows we both need it.”

Sherlock nodded again, and already his eyes were falling closed and staying that way. His entire body was more relaxed than he could remember it being in a long time. He was completely not perturbed by the thought of lying naked next to his flatmate. That night opened him up to a whole new sense of bravery.

 _I can do this, this relationship thing,_ he decided.

Already John’s chest was slowly settling into a steady rhythm. He knew they would both be sore in the morning- John even more so. He knew the truth was he probably did push them both too much, but his brain was rattled with the thought that _I did that_. _I pushed us. And according to John, in a good way.  
_

Another man slept beside him, a man who truly cared for him, and if that wasn’t a sign he could finally leave the past behind then he didn’t know what was. He didn’t know if it was the sex, or the emotions, or the exhaustion, but he felt a lot less angry at the world.

Never would he have imagined Victor turning up at his doorstep after all those years. Never would he have thought he would kiss him again, or even speak with him again. When he was younger and still bitter about the breakup he imagined getting his revenge and punching Victor to the ground if he ever saw him again.

Instead he opened up to him, and he accepted Victor’s plea for help. He had a heart-to-heart with his brother for the first time in ages, and for the first time in his life he thought he might be able to forgive Mycroft for leaving him behind.

Victor was safe now, Mr. Trevor was alive, and they actually both admitted that they didn’t blame him for anything.

No one did.

Somehow that realization made the air seem a lot clearer. It made breathing seem easier, and it made his mind seem a lot less heavy.

 _It’s going to be okay,_ he told himself.

He closed his eyes, and as he allowed himself to drift toward sleep he truly believed that promise for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank EVERYONE who has read and/or commented on the story!! All of your comments give me so much inspiration. This fic was quite the work-in-progress, and I'm already afraid of errors or continuity mistakes. I'm not a very good notekeeper, and I know some of you have already pointed out some mistakes in reviews, and I plan to go back and fix those.
> 
> This fic was a challenge to write. For starters I had never written smut before. Or slash. Not ever, until that very first chapter! I had no idea how people would react to what was both a Sherlock/Victor fic and a Sherlock/John fic, and I'm still surprised and very pleased that so many people seemed to have enjoyed it. 
> 
> I would be honoured if you would let me know what you thought of the end! If you still have questions, or if there's something you feel I left out let me know. Like said, this was a monster of a work in progress that was accomplished alongside horrible work schedules, illnesses, and all kinds of real-life stuff so it's always a challenge to keep the flow and pace of the story going. 
> 
> Once again, I appreciate you all and thank you SO MUCH for supporting this story!!!!!!


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